


a thousand teeth, and yours among them

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Hannibal Lecter Being an Asshole, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal/Will - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, Light D/s Dynamics, M/M, Manipulation, New Orleans Detective Will Graham, NoLa AU, Surgeon Hannibal, They Flip, Will Finds Out, Will starts out normal but y'know, beverly is a detective, cw: biting, cw: breathplay (mild), cw: child death (non graphic description, cw: cutting in a sexual context, cw: gore, cw: knifeplay, cw: light bondage, cw: mentions of past institutionalisation, cw: murder (non graphic description), cw: psychotic break (mention), explored d/s themes, hannibal is nasty as, jimmy and brian work in the NOLA PD labs bc of course they do, pre-Baltimore storyline au, pre-FBI au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 97,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: "A thousand teeth,and yours among them, I know.Our hungers appeased,Our heartbeats becoming slow." - In a Week, HozierUnconventional New Orleans Detective Will Graham meets his match when surgeon Hannibal Lecter asks him to dinner in the aftermath of a murder investigation. As his relationship with the enigmatic Doctor unfolds, Will gets further entrenched in the hunt for not one but two serial killers: the first creating a bloody ode to family values, while the other vanishes bodies into the swamps and bayous of rural Louisiana.Pre-show AU with all our faves, including Team Sassy Science!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pastelgothshellder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelgothshellder/gifts).



> Wow, so we've been writing this for... months and months. We put a lot of time and effort into it and we're really happy with it and hope that you are too. We'd love to hear your thoughts, so as always, don't be afraid to open a dialogue!
> 
> We'd like to say a special thank you to @pastelgothshellder for proof-reading this MONSTER and providing great feedback and cheerleading. Any mistakes are all ours. 
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> Deadly and L xoxo
> 
> Note: Beverly, Jimmy and Zeller all appear in this fic, but they're in pre-show roles in NOLA PD. :)

It's early when the phone rings. Will startles awake from not-quite remembered dreams. It takes a moment for him to register that the sound is outside his head as his eyes scan the ceiling, taking in sun spots and circles of growing damp. Rubbing his eyes, Will stumbles out of bed and down the hall, picking up the phone.

"Graham."

"Detective, this is Second District dispatch. We've had a call about a shooting victim brought into Tulane's ER. Can you report there and take over from the uniforms on scene?"

"What kind of call?" Will frowns.

"It was the Delaney shooting, sir."

"Does this mean Delaney has gone from nearly dead to completely dead?"

"Yes, sir. Apparently someone broke into the hospital to finish the job."

Will sighs. The attack on Louis Delaney has been all over the news for days, but he was fine with the case staying down with Narcotics. Anyone with half a brain could guess it was drug-related.

"I'm on my way," he says anyway, looking around for a shirt. He hopes the uniforms have had the sense to keep the scene contained, but with a high-profile victim like Delaney it's guaranteed to be a circus. He can't do his job properly if it's a circus.

 He hangs up; gets dressed and goes out to his car. It's early, but the sidewalks already shimmer with heat. Days like this he regrets not buying that little cabin near Slidell. One day he thinks he'll haul ass to Florida and get a job in a boat yard. That's the retirement plan. If he makes it that far, of course.

The drive to the hospital is relatively short and he knows it by rote. Inside, it's as much of a mess as he could have predicted, but Tulane is a good hospital with a good critical injuries ward, and the circus is contained to just one room and the corridor immediately outside of it. The harried uniforms outside the hastily strung tape barrier see him coming, but Will can't tell if they're relieved or not.

He holds up his badge, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees them bend together to talk as he passes. He's been the subject of more than his fair share of gossip since his trip to Quantico to consult for the Bureau, and the aftermath. Words generally don't bother him, and neither does being disliked, but it does make it harder to get a job done when people avoid your gaze.

He looks around the hospital room; the body in situ. "Anyone gonna give me the brief, or shall I magic it out of my ass?" he asks, quietly.

One of the uniforms shakes himself, not unlike a wet dog. "The victim was alone in his hospital room in between nurses' rounds; the doctor on call stopped by to check in on him and surprised the assailant, who fled the scene. They attempted to resuscitate at that point."

"What, no guard on the room of a high security, high-profile mobster?" Will raises his eyebrows when the uniform takes longer than a second to reply.

"The guard was... incapacitated, sir."

"Will he recover? Where's he been taken? What about the Doctor?"

The cop's eyes dart, from Will's mouth to over his shoulder. Will follows his gaze, and sees a tall man in a suit talking to another officer. Fancy European tailoring and an unflappable air about him. Almost definitely a Doctor.

"Detective Graham-" the officer sees him coming, "this is Doctor Lecter, Delaney's attending surgeon. He saw the assailant after the fact."

Will looks up, eyes grazing his face but not lingering. "Doctor," he acknowledges. "We'll need to take a statement."

"Of course," Lecter agrees, "would you like to go to my office, or should I make an appointment to accompany you to the police station?"

Will glances at his watch. CSU should be arriving soon, but he has some time. "The injured guard?" he asks.

"He's in a bed, I examined him myself once the suspect had escaped. He has a shallow stab wound but he's being treated and should make a full recovery. I have, of course, shared his status with your head of department."

Will shoots a look at the uniform. "Make sure to keep a guard on him, too. And have a CSU tech pull the security footage."

“Yes Detective Graham.”

He looks back at Lecter, "Doctor, is your office nearby?"

He bows his chin and moves to open the door. "Just down the hall. Come."

Will studies him out of habit as they walk. The elaborate suit was unexpected, but his posture is not; he moves with an absolute sense of his own strength and purpose. Like any surgeon Will has ever met, and he's met a few. Steady hands, a lean, tanned handsomeness. European accent with enough wiggle room in it that Will can distinguish it as well-educated and well-travelled. Will thinks that Doctor Lecter might be entirely aware of how he looks: demure, fastidious to the point of eccentricity. Something about it seems contrived, though Will can’t quite put a name to the feeling.

"Thank you," he says when Lecter lets him into his office. Will knows how he looks, too; unshaven, rumpled, sleep-deprived. Lecter doesn't comment, but his eyes move over Will tellingly for a second as he settles himself into a leather desk chair and straightens the pleats of his trousers with an efficient little flick, waving Will to its partner.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks. "A coffee, perhaps?"

Will shakes his head automatically. He doesn't have time for that.

Formalities over with, Doctor Lecter leans forward in his seat. "I was the scheduled surgical attendant for tonight."

"Did you perform the original surgery as well?" Will asks.

"Just so." He nods. "It went extremely well; one of my more successful gunshot surgeries, considering."

"Was a bullet recovered?" He could check police records for that, but he's here, so he asks. The doctor nods, and Will mirrors it. "And tonight? What was the patient's status?"

"The last time I saw him?" The doctor's pale eyebrow cocks. "Quite dead. His chart shows that the attendant before had been pleased with his recovery from the surgery and that he was stable but remained unconscious. I had been in surgery at the time of the previous check in but I’d been doing my rounds when the commotion started."

Will bites back a sigh. "The responding officer said you came to examine him?"

"I heard a noise of pain from within the room and assumed he had woken up."

"Did you notice the absence of the guard at that time?"

"Yes; it occurred to me that a guard trying to climb the ladder might think putting a big-time crook down was what the job required. That was obviously not the case. He was unconscious on the floor against the wall; the perpetrator was standing by the bed holding a pillow. He had disabled the monitors."

Will nods, waiting for him to go on.

"I stepped toward him without thinking. He rushed forward and tried to push past me. I grabbed him, he punched me, but I didn't let go. He dropped onto the floor and out of his sweatshirt. I tried to run after him, but he slammed the door back on me and it dazed me for a moment. Of course, I called security immediately, but he'd gotten out on the next floor and climbed out onto the roof."

"Are you injured?" Will asks, and Lecter's face flashes with dismissiveness for a moment. It's more notable because of his general expressionlessness.

"I have a bruise on my jaw, perhaps some residual muscle stiffness in a few hours. I'm not in any discomfort." He shifts faintly in his chair, and then smiles. Will gives him a grimace back. The Doctor seems almost preternaturally calm.

"You gave the sweater to the cops?"

"I did. And all the charts."

"He didn't use a weapon on you or the patient," Will muses. "What was the guard stabbed with?"

"He dropped it," Lecter supplies, "You'll notice from the scene that the pillow is without blood, I believe the guard must have come in during or after the act. I'm afraid I can't say how he got into the room in the first place."

"Yeah, that's where I come in."

"I suppose it is." Lecter meets his eyes steadily. Will lets his gaze slide again. He avoids eye contact at the best of times; Lecter's are nearly impossible to look into, so dark brown they're almost wine colored. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective... Graham, was it?"

"If I think of something, I'll call you. And if you need anything..." Will reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a card.

Lecter turns it over, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth which doesn't quite cover polite. "Thank you, Detective. I'm at your disposal. I will be at the hospital until about mid afternoon, circumstances permitting. Do I need to stay any longer?"

"No, Doctor Lecter. Thank you for your time." Will stands, Lecter mirroring him again. Will finds himself surprised to be at the other side of his own behavior. He has a habit of adopting mannerisms and syntax; one he's tried hard to shake without success. Talking to Lecter had even made his own long, Louisiana drawl contract. Lecter's own accent drips like caramel. Will's still mentally trying to place it when Lecter holds out a hand.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says, cordially, "I only regret the circumstance."

Mistrustful of the excessive niceness, Will shakes his hand, and then opens the door for him. "Uh, yeah."

Lips pressing together briefly, Lecter inclines his head in thanks and precedes him out the door. Their paths split back in the ward at the nurses' station. Will goes back to the room, and the CSU have still not arrived- there's just one uniform on the door. Irritated as he is by the lateness, Will is still grateful for a look inside, relatively alone. He shows his badge to the uniform again and steps into the hospital room.

He takes a moment to breathe in, then closes his eyes.

_Boot-print on the outside of the window ledge. Swift entry, disabling of machinery, smothering. The guard outside the room peers through the window; comes in gun unholstered. He draws a knife and pivots, mechanical, trained. A scuffle - no gunshot, he's disabled the guard, knocked him out with another trained strike. Left him discarded on the floor and left..._ how?

Will opens his eyes. Security footage will tell him. "Get me footage from the bottom three floors of the hospital," he tells the uniform on the door, "and find out where my CSU is." He bites off the end of the sentence, glancing down to the nurses' station before stalking back to the window.

He peers out. There are other adjoining roofs from many expansions to the existing hospital structure. From up here, they look like mismatched steps. Hard to climb, not much energy when he got here. Maybe why he dropped the knife; why Lecter could stop him. There was thought put into this, quite a bit of effort and as much planning as the time frame could allow. A professional, then. He might have expected that.

He goes to get shitty vending machine coffee; is drinking it and staring when the CSU finally arrive. He interviews a nurse and two other patients, and finally, the newly conscious guard. The sun is setting when he finishes up, and he's surprised to find himself running into Doctor Lecter again, though it's well past the time he said he would be leaving. This time, the suit is covered by OR scrubs, and he looks tired, but his posture is still perfect.

"Good evening, Detective." He gives him a pleasant smile. His teeth are white and small. "Are you wrapping up for the day?"

"Yes, I am. Are you?"

"Not quite. One of our residents has an infection, I'm covering."

Will bites his lip. He's atrocious at small talk. "Do you teach as well?"

"I do. I have my own interns, and I occasionally lecture at the university."

"I hope the interruption in your routine isn't too... inconvenient." If Doctor Lecter thinks it a strange sentiment, he doesn't say.

"Surgeons generally don't have routines, Detective. We are required to be adaptable."

Will flicks a look at his face before refocusing on his tie. "So are detectives."

"Exactly. I'm sure you know just what I mean. Anyway, don't let me keep you any longer. It's been a long day."

"They all are. Good night, Doctor."

*

He goes to the precinct and debriefs; spends several long, tedious hours waiting on lab reports. He's a forensic specialist by trade, but the resources at the precinct are limited. He's made his displeasure known in the past, but mostly, it just gets him more shit. The only reason he hasn't been demoted is because he's too good a cop. A tool, really. His superiors have figured out how to use him, despite his deficiencies. Despite his breakdown. He's figured out how to use himself.

*

It's the early hours when he arrives home, and his arrival triggers the barking of next door's dogs through the fence. He gives them each a biscuit and a head scratch to quiet them before heading inside. His apartment is as empty as it always is, of course, a place of genteel neglect like so many others on the outskirts of the Quarter, plaster quietly mildewing in the corners.

Nothing about it makes it his, really, but its blankness comforts him until he's managed to drink enough to go to sleep.

He's jolted awake again a couple of meager hours later, when his phone trills loud enough that the dogs bark again, echoing through the walls. He's not sure how long it's been ringing. He picks it up blearily.

"Graham, homicide." It's dispatch again. He fingers the empty glass on his bedside table and listens. "I'll be right there," he mumbles, and gets up to go wash his mouth out.

They have the footage ready. He has more work to do. He shouldn't have drank so much. He makes a sandwich and eats it in the car, navigating the streets one handed.

He tells himself he's lucky it's just - just - a murdered drug kingpin. It could be something infinitely worse. Last month, for example, it was a father who shot up his wife and kids and then turned the gun on himself. He's still having nightmares about that one.

And New Orleans has had even stranger crimes, things he can't wrap his head around yet. Before the call about Delaney, he'd been following up on a John Doe that had been cut from the belly of an alligator that a nearby citizen had seen carrying around a human hand. When they'd opened it up, they'd found what was left of a man, cut up into pieces as if jointed by a butcher.

Filled with thoughts of teeth and strangeness, he parks up and heads into the precinct; gets two cups of coffee to take to his office to review the hospital footage. He'll have to confer with Narcotics today; they've been building a case on Delaney for years and they know him much better than Will could hope to. Perhaps they'll know who would have the means -- and the desire -- to kill him.

He pulls out the statements he and the uniforms took, lingering on the assaulted guard's- whose name is Marco Peretti - and Doctor Lecter's. He draws a star next to the section where Lecter describes the attacker. Not that it's very helpful; the man was apparently wearing a face covering. Lecter is unexpectedly specific about his estimated height and weight - perhaps due to his medical training? Peretti is less specific, though he was probably distracted by being stabbed.

Sighing, Will turns back to his computer and clicks on the footage the techs sent him. Four files. He watches them over and over. Tries to put himself into the killer's footsteps. There's not much to see. He doesn't come into the hospital through the ground floor entrance, but he does run across the second and first floors to get to a fire escape door. The footage from the second floor corridor where Delaney was being held shows more or less exactly what Doctor Lecter described.

Will harbors a moment of suspicion - the doctor's composure is impressive, his recall as well. It's possible that he could have colluded with the attacker. No motive though, that Will can see. Outside of that, it's something else that pushes Will away from him. He can see Lecter calling security as the perp makes it into the elevator, clutching his shoulder from the collision with the door. When he hangs up, he keeps staring at the phone, as though in shock. Will stares at his pixilated expression for a long time. There's something familiar about it. Even though Will has to squint, he thinks Lecter looks- unsettled. Like he hadn't allowed for this.

Control freak, Will supposes. He's met enough surgeons in his time to know how they seem to relish playing God.

"You stitched that guy up," he mutters to the tiny Lecter on the screen, "you spent five hours working on him, and that son-of-a-bitch came in and undid all your hard work, didn't he, Doctor? If I were you I'd be furious."

He watches the footage again, and again. It doesn't change. Lecter's tangible, barely concealed irritation screams at Will through the screen. He makes a mental note and moves on. Footage of the perp is fleeting. All Will can see is that he's big, and fast. Will feels an echo of Lecter's irritation in his own expression.

"Came to finish the job," he breathes, "so chances are, you shot him in the first place, and someone wasn’t happy when word spread he’d survive." He rifles through the file from Narcotics; finds another file with a mention of surveillance footage of the initial Delaney attack. He needs to make this case his own; sift through Narco's assumptions and find what he needs. He checks the officer in charge on the file folder and picks up his desk phone, then remembers it's the middle of the night, and stalls. Not everyone tells dispatch to wake them no matter what the hour, after all.

"Fuck," he mutters. He calls his captain instead, and hears the wear in Thibodeau's voice when he speaks his name. "I need everything Narcotics has on Delaney," he says.

"Right. And why do you need my help on that?"

"I need your permission to take over the case. It's clearly a homicide now."

"Some of that is federal. ATF. And your reputation at the Bureau..."

"So tell them I can handle this. I can. I can handle all of it."

"I believe you, Will," the captain replies. "But you're not taking it on without help. Who does Narco have on the case?"

Will wants to curse him out. "Bianchi," he bites out.

"So work it with Bianchi. He's a good cop too, y'know. All this Batman crap spoils you."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Yours," Thibodeau says flatly.

Will grits his teeth. "If you don't like the way I do the work-"

"Jesus, Will, it's three in the morning. Call Narco. Find _someone_ you can work it with. You need their cooperation. Prove to me you can do this, and maybe I'll cut you some slack, okay?"

"Fine," he says through his teeth.

"You're a great detective, Will, you got something really special, even the Feds can see that," Thibodeau continues. "But you gotta learn to play ball sometimes."

Will sighs. "Yes, sir." He hangs up and dials Narco's department phone. Someone might answer, he reasons. In fact, someone does.

"Katz, Narcotics," says a distracted voice.

Katz. He thinks he remembers the face. Long, dark hair. Easy smile. She doesn't sound like she's smiling now. He wonders how long she's been on nights. "It's Graham from Homicide, I need some information on the Delaney shooting, I'm working the case on this end. Anyone there that can help me?"

"That would be me, Graham. Isn't it your lucky day? Or night, I suppose. What files am I getting out for you?"

"All of them," Will sighs.

"Bianchi isn't going to like that. It's still pretty much our MO. I'm happy to share though. More happy if there's coffee involved."

With an effort, Will manages not to say something rude about Bianchi. "Coffee," he confirms tiredly. "Give me ten minutes."

"Meet you in the cafeteria if you want. Neutral ground."

"I’ll bring a white flag." Will picks up his own file and his coffee mug and heads for the elevator. Katz arrives a few minutes after him, juggling files and a sad tub of salad from the cafeteria fridge. He pushes a paper cup toward her when she sits.

"God, I don't even care that this smells like mud," Katz says, dumping some sugar into it immediately, "the machine on our floor is broken."

"Call HR immediately, that's actionable," Will deadpans.

"Tried it, the woman I spoke to said, 'You've got a coffee machine on your floor?!'" She throws her hands up.

Will chuckles softly. "Come by and use ours anytime."

"Maybe I will, Graham. Maybe I will."

He crooks a smile at the unintentional use of his name. Katz digs into her salad and starts to talk over the case. Will can't help but keep the smile going. She's much more forthcoming than he was expecting. Sometimes very opinionated, demonstrably over-familiar. Still, Will finds himself not minding. They pool resources until Will pins down a few suspects. She's refreshingly matter of fact about Delaney's death, despite the fact that it has to be throwing a wrench in Narco's operations.

"This seems pretty garden variety for you, Graham," she points out eventually, "if you don't mind me saying."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Word around the precinct is that you usually get the spooky stuff."

"I guess that's fair. I've got a guy feeding body parts to alligators at the moment, too," he muses. Her expression is priceless: morbid delight only cops get on weird cases.

"That's the kind of urban myth nonsense I'm talking about. On brand, y'know?"

"I guess you're right." He chuckles again, surprised at himself.

They keep up their easy banter until fingers of sunlight start to tap at the cafeteria windows. Katz looks at her watch and grimaces. "I've got to get these back up there, Graham."

"All right. Send me copies when you get chance."

"Sure. Go home, okay?" She tells him. "You look like you haven't slept in a month."

He looks at the time. "Feels that way, too." He doesn't really intend to, of course.

They part ways in the corridor and Will heads for his car. He wants to drive by the hospital again. He mulls the motivation behind the impulse as he drives. When he gets there, he goes in through the gates, gets a ticket, and then spends ten minutes idling around the perimeter of the hospital buildings before he spots where the perpetrator must have started his climb toward the second story window.

Taking off his jacket and getting out of the car, Will hoists himself up onto a dumpster. If hospital security sees him now, he'll have a great deal of explaining to do, but the prospect isn't enough to stop him. If a fucking crook can do it, he thinks, hoisting himself onto the roof, no reason they should see him.

He feels ridiculous, now that he's up here, feet scraping over dirty gravel. He looks around; sees another building lip. He goes, following his feet. The CSU should have been up here, he's just... curious. He takes a moment to scan the cityscape. The new day is already shimmering thickly with a promise of heat and afternoon storms. He wonders if it had been raining yesterday. Probably, at some point.

Will picks his way toward the window, getting steadily more out of breath and more unsure of his motivation with every grunting chin up. He knows one thing for certain now: whoever did this is much more fit than he is. He's mildly afraid he's about to fall off the roof. He stops, mind turning it over as he pants. It will narrow his suspects down, especially if he cross references other similar cases.

" _There are easier ways to get this job done, but they require stealth or deception. I choose the risky one, the one that takes brute strength and no fear. I expect to be admired for this. I'll talk about it to make sure I am._ " He shrugs to himself. "A penchant for the dramatic is a given."

Another step, a glance up towards the windows of Delaney's floor. " _I am invincible. How dare that doctor stop me_?" He pauses then. " _I will remember him, and I will show him what it means to interfere with us._ "

Will closes his eyes, coming abruptly back into himself. A panting figure in a rumpled button down and dirty khakis, standing on a rooftop in the heartless morning sun. He gets out his phone with shaky hands, then hesitates. He can't call in a detail on a hunch. Slowly, carefully, he lets himself back down onto the ground. He looks around, mind still racing. Ticket barrier. He walked. Must be cameras for that too, surely. This is the edge of the Quarter, next to a university. There are people everywhere, but also cameras. Maybe he's traceable. Maybe he slipped up.

He calls the precinct. Captain Thibodeau sounds even less pleased to hear from him.

"Will. When did you last sleep?"

"Last night. Ish." He leans against a wrought iron fence.

"Go home, for god's sake. I'll get someone on your leads, they'll call you if they get anything."

"Yes, sir," Will says. Thibodeau won't be trifled with if he's resorted to that tone of voice. He both resents and understands why he's a source of headache for the captain. He has a brilliance even he can't put down to fluke, but with that comes a fragility, too. There's been more than one department-ordered psych visit. They never go well.

With frustration and foreboding building in his chest like a steam kettle, he gets in his car and sets off home.

***

Hannibal straightens the leather folio and pen case resting on his desk blotter, then reaches to turn off his desk lamp. He's at the hospital late today; an emergency consult came in from one of his colleagues in the late afternoon. Now, the sky outside his window is the color of a days-old bruise.

He packs up his satchel, retrieves his overcoat from the closet and drapes it over one arm as he locks up the office, and heads out. He strolls toward the elevators and makes his way to the staff garage in silence. A couple of his nurses who are carpooling home together give him shy waves, and he bids them a pleasant good evening. He lets himself into his Bentley, placing his coat and bag in the back seat, and reverses out of his space.

The car glides through the swelling dark, the air sweet with fallen rain and warmth. Porch lights and street lamps peer through the leaves as he drives through the Garden District, turning onto Coliseum Street. After he pulls into the carriage house at the rear of his property, he stands for a moment and breathes in green smells from the garden. He uses the linoleum knife from his pocket to clip some herbs on his way to the house: he has some lovely fresh lamb in the refrigerator.

His fingers skim the reaching fronds of grasses and flowers. The cherry tree drapes him in darkness on all sides for a moment when he crosses beneath it.

Inside, he carries his things to the front of the house, hanging the coat in the front closet and setting his bag neatly by his study door. He goes upstairs to hang his suit jacket and tie, returning to the kitchen with his sleeves neatly folded to start preparation for dinner. He notices his shoulder twinging as he prepares the lamb shanks for braising and frowns with displeasure. There's barely a bruise, and a heat pad and some painkillers had taken care of the worst of it, but it's the reminder of it that irks him. Louis Delaney dead, in _his_ hospital, not due to the bullet Hannibal had extracted from his gut, but thanks to some... interloper who'd caught Hannibal unawares. It's intolerable.

That brings Detective Will Graham to mind, then, snappish and surly, with a young face but tired, pale eyes. Hannibal doesn't have extensive experience with detectives- he makes a point to avoid such scrutiny- but Graham seems unusual even so. Socially awkward verging on unpleasant. Arrogant but unsure. An interesting combination.

Hannibal savors the observed contradictions as he chops rosemary and uncorks a bottle of red wine for his braising liquid. He takes a moment to hover the bottle neck under his nose, taking in the bouquet. He might even have a glass with dinner. Or two. After the reminder of yesterday's injury, he thinks he deserves it.

He sets the meat to marinate and takes a glass to the study with him, where he sits down at his piano. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead as he calls up an appropriate piece from his memory. Chopin will keep him company until it's time to go back to the kitchen.

While he plays, part of his mind wanders back along the corridors of the hospital, to the room where he saw Will Graham stand and conduct the silence like he was making music from its grisly memories. He recognizes that he's becoming fascinated, and that his fascination is probably not merited. It hadn't helped, overhearing the chatter that followed Graham down the halls from other officers on the scene. Some cowed, and some dismissive. Most, intimidated and envious.

Hannibal supposes he ought to feel relieved that the murder is in Detective Graham's hands, and accordingly, stop thinking about it entirely. He can't, though. Not yet. Not while he still wears bruises from the encounter.

After some time, he closes the piano and continues with dinner prep. Outside, the stars have risen. He lights candles to reflect in the long windows of his dining room and puts china and silver in place on the table, setting a fork down with a loud _chink_ when he hears an out-of-place noise - the rattle of his mail flap.

He looks first out of the hall window as he goes to investigate, curiosity spiked by a retreating form. He's never bothered with a "No Solicitors" plaque as some of his neighbors have - there's never been the need. Now, he plucks a cream envelope from the floor and turns it in his hands; blank. He raises it to sniff. Hot sauce, gun oil, and brick dust. His lip curls - revolting.

Slitting it open with the now-clean linoleum knife, Hannibal unfolds the letter inside. It is brief, and direct:

_Stay out of our business, or you're next._

"Creatively challenged," he murmurs, to no one in particular. He goes back to the window. He can't see anything now, not even retreating headlights. He taps the note against his palm. Still watching, or long gone? Coliseum's sidewalks are pools of shadow at this time of night.

Blade still in hand, he opens the front door, and listens to the cool night. There's nothing. With a sigh, he steps back inside, closing the door behind him and considers the letter again.

"Ridiculous."

He can smell that the lamb is done. He dines, as planned, and muses on the implications. He's already told the police all he knows, of course. This... correspondent must realize that. Hannibal dislikes empty threats. He thinks about Graham again. It wouldn't be empty if he found suspects; asked Hannibal to pick them from a lineup. He would, if asked. Amenability is paramount. Threats, on the other hand, are juvenile.

He lets his tongue run over the familiar terrain of his teeth, thinking. Then, he picks up the phone.

"Hello, Detective Graham," Hannibal greets him when he picks up.

There's a moment of silent recognition. He sounds like he was asleep. "Doctor Lecter?"

"Yes. My apologies for disturbing you so late."

"That's no problem." Despite his gruff tone, Hannibal sees that it's true. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm perfectly well," Hannibal assures him. "However, I've had an anonymous... communication and I thought you'd like to know."

"From whoever killed Delaney?"

"I assume so. It was dropped through my mail slot just before dinner."

"Did you get a look at who delivered it?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

Graham takes another long moment, thinking. "Doctor Lecter, may I come to your home, just to take a look around the perimeter? I'll call the precinct and ask them to pick up any traffic cameras around the area for a vehicle."

"I didn't see one," Hannibal tells him. "I did look."

"You think he walked?" A note of mild acidity there.

"There are quite a few pedestrians in the Garden District, even at night," Hannibal replies.

Graham makes another noise of disbelief. "Security footage works on people too. Please, Doctor Lecter, refrain from touching the letter anymore if you can. I'll be there soon. Can I take your address?"

Hannibal gives it to him, though there's no sound of paper rustling as he writes it down.

"Thank you. I'll be there soon."

Hannibal pauses by the steps for a moment, then goes to retrieve his wine. He'll wait in the study.

Graham is longer than he expected- but Hannibal suspects he is walking the route he thinks the delivery man will have taken. When the knock finally sounds on his door, he opens it to find Graham studying his porch intently. "A place like this doesn't have perimeter cameras?"

"I can't say I've ever had a need for them. Please, Detective, do come in."

He does, though he looks almost reluctant. His eyes move around Hannibal's foyer with veiled interest. He doesn't otherwise comment. "I can take fingerprints while I’m here but on the off chance I need to have anyone else take a look, I'll ask you to avoid the area for the time being. You can walk me through what happened."

Hannibal notes that none of that is actually a request. "I'll use the back door," he agrees, anyway. "As for what happened- just as I said. I was preparing dinner, and the letter was dropped through the door."

"Show me."

Hannibal shows him to where he's left the letter on the hall table. Graham immediately pulls on some sterile gloves from his pocket. He reads the short message, expressionless, then inspects the paper and envelope carefully before slipping them into a plastic bag.

"No footprints on flagstones," he mumbles.

"Pardon?"

"On your path. Flagstones. Was the gate open when you got home?"

"I can't say that I noticed," Hannibal murmurs. "I came in from the carriage house in the back."

"Mm'kay. I've got a print set in my car, I'm gonna go try the gate." He opens the door.

"Surely he wore gloves." Hannibal watches Graham pause and look back up at him.

"Probably. But this will go faster if I can rule it out before we drag a tech out here to do the same thing." He pats his pocket, slipping out a pair of horn rimmed glasses and puts them on. "You don't have to come with me, Doctor."

"On the contrary, I'd like to," Hannibal says, picking a coat out of the hall closet. He also pulls a small flashlight out of a drawer and trails Graham out to his car, which is on the street in front of Hannibal's house. The gate is open, Hannibal notes with displeasure, and the Detective tip toes through it without touching it so as not to disturb anything. He normally leaves it shut.

Graham looks up at his disgruntled hum. "Not even the decency to close your gate," he says, not quite sarcastic.

"Quite." Hannibal watches him retrieve a small tackle box and a good quality camera from the trunk of his Jeep. He's familiar with the process of dusting for prints, so he waits until Graham has his brush and powder ready and provides a steady beam of light on the handle of the gate.

He gets a few hits, though notes dryly that most of them are probably Hannibal's, or the mail-man's. Hannibal steadfastly does not acknowledge the concern of having his prints on a police database.

When Detective Graham has collected any prints that look halfway useable, he takes a few photos of the gate and the surrounding areas for good measure. He’s mostly silent, occasionally murmuring to himself. It's evident even without his thoroughness that he is a good cop: he was prepared.

Soon, they move back to the front porch, where he prints the mail slot too, then glances up at Hannibal. "I can print you now for the reference samples if you don't have any problem with that."

"Not at all." Hannibal holds the door open for him when he's done, then holds a hand out for his jacket. "Allow me."

Graham obediently sheds his jacket, and Hannibal hangs it neatly before ushering him into the study. "Would you like some coffee, Detective? I'm taking up a great deal of your time."

"Uh- that would be. If you're making some, sure," he answers, "please."

Hannibal nods and goes back to the kitchen. He puts the coffee machine on, downing the remainder of his wine and looking at the ruby haze on the empty glass. He wonders, for a moment, if it's how Detective Will Graham sees the world. He certainly preserves a space between himself and everyone else. He sees it even when he re-enters the study to find him ready with ink and pad, eyes staring into middle distance until Hannibal comes around the table.

"It will stain," he warns Hannibal, "I suggest using salt or baking soda mixed with your usual hand soap."

"Very kind of you, Detective." Hannibal crosses to the desk and sets a tray down by Graham's elbow. "How do you take it?"

"One sugar, please. Thank you." He watches Hannibal stir it in, then holds his hand out, fingers wiggling briskly. Hannibal hands the cup over and watches Graham take a sip, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment.

"That's good, thanks," he murmurs, "but I wanted your hand."

"My mistake." Hannibal extends his left hand. Graham takes it gently, gloves still on, and carefully prints each of Hannibal's fingers.

"This just means we can eliminate your prints from the ones I've collected."

Hannibal sets the ink-smudged hand carefully in his lap and offers the other. "I understand."

"I'm sure you do." Graham moves on. "I suppose it's habit to commentate. Usually people find the silence disconcerting." By which he means, Hannibal extrapolates, that people find him disconcerting.

"Silence is often uncomfortable for those who are afraid of their own thoughts," Hannibal replies, watching him.

Those glass-shard eyes of his flick up to look at Hannibal again. He raises an eyebrow behind his spectacles. "People think silence is filled with judgment."

"To be fair..." Hannibal murmurs, lips twitching.

"You think I'm judgmental?"

"I wouldn't presume. Are you?"

"I don't think you've done anything wrong, Doctor Lecter. I think you have been pushed into an intimidating... situation." He looks at his hands as he speaks, finding words like uneven footsteps in the dark. "I have no reason to judge you."

Hannibal picks up his own coffee cup and sips. "If it's not judgment, what is it?" he asks, gently.

"I'm merely curious."

"Curious?"

"You did receive a threatening letter at your home, then proceeded to eat dinner before calling me." His tone is even, and Hannibal answers in kind.

"It's an empty threat, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know. Some big shot son of the mob wants to show he's not afraid to throw his weight around. Things can get messy." Hannibal just watches him, and he sighs and takes his glasses off, tucking them away in his breast pocket. "I should encourage you to ask for police protection."

"I do not like wasting police time, nor, does it seem, do the police like having it wasted."

"I dunno." Will looks around Hannibal's study. "I've had my time wasted in far less agreeable settings. And with much worse coffee."

"Noted," Hannibal murmurs. "Is that your professional opinion, Detective Graham? That I should ask for a protection detail?"

Graham's eyes slide back to him, hovering around his neck for a moment. "If you like, I can arrange one. I wouldn't consider it unwarranted." He doesn't say that he would consider it unnecessary, but it's implicit somehow in the tilt of his mouth.

Hannibal also considers it unnecessary, and an invasion of his privacy, but he makes a show of considering it. "Perhaps if I get any more rude notes," he allows, watching the half smile aimed in his direction.

"I will keep you updated on any progress in our investigation," Graham adds, watching his own hands cup his coffee mug. "And please-" he stalls himself, like he's not sure if he wants to say what he's about to.

Hannibal sets his cup down, crossing his legs and tilting his head. He waits.

"Feel free to call me," Graham offers, "if you're feeling... like it is necessary."

"You will protect me?" Hannibal smiles.

"I watched the security footage from the hospital. Doesn't much look like you need it," he says in what Hannibal thinks might be a faintly impressed tone. "But it's what I'm here for."

"Thank you. I feel quite reassured."

"I'm sure you do. Would you like me to take a look around anywhere before I go? Anything else that will reassure you?" Slight emphasis on 'reassure'. The quirk of his eyebrows again. Graham doesn't articulate so much as facially enunciate. He's worth watching carefully for those tiny hints of curbed body language.

"By all means take a look around," Hannibal offers.

"First, go on and wash your hands," Graham comments, standing up. Hannibal had no idea he was that obvious about his distaste for the ink. He goes, Graham following. He looks all over, studying doors and windows. The house is not small. When Graham moves off toward the stairs, Hannibal puts on another pot of coffee, mildly amused where he might normally be put out. There's nothing upstairs that Detective Graham cannot see, after all.

Coffee refreshed and the vast majority of the ink scrubbed away, Hannibal tracks Detective Graham to the library upstairs, where he's looking dubiously onto the broad balcony.

"Impressive," Graham says, glancing back at him, "but I suppose you do have the space for it."

"I unfortunately have to find the space. I have a debilitating book collecting problem."

"Medical texts?" Graham asks, glancing at a few nearby shelves.

"Everything," Hannibal shrugs, watching as Graham moves toward them, fingers outstretched. He finds himself curiously unperturbed. He's careful. Hannibal expected he would be. His fingertips trail a few texts, before he seems to remember himself.

"Everything seems fine. I'd be tempted to set up cameras if I were you. You can get motion activated sets online, apps to watch them on your phone... a property this big, it might be wise anyway."

"I'll be quite honest; the thought has never crossed my mind."

Graham apparently doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing. From the way he bites his lip, Hannibal suspects he is at the mercy of judgmental silence again. "It is my professional opinion," he says finally.

"Then I shall bear it in mind," Hannibal relents.

Graham actually smiles, fleeting like a bird darting across a cloudy sky. "And I'll keep my ringer on." He sips his coffee, looking down into the mug like he's considering proposing to it. "This is good coffee."

Hannibal smiles at him. "Pardon me for asking, Detective, but this doesn't seem to be your usual case," he says, after a beat. "The word is that you are usually on more... select cases?"

Graham stares at his mug for another beat, a flicker of resentment like a lens flare in his eyes. Not the first time someone has told him that recently, Hannibal guesses. "I'm a forensic specialist for Homicide," he says finally.

"Of course. Amongst your colleagues from the Delaney case, it seems you're quite the hot topic."

Graham manages to look both irritated and embarrassed. Truly fascinating body language. Hannibal notices a slight twitch in his shoulder- no doubt muscle pain.

"Ah, there is a certain... idea... of what kind of crime I specialize in. Lots of detectives get pigeon-holed." He sounds like he's repeating it in someone else's voice.

"You'd prefer not to be?"

"I'd prefer - not to be gossiped about because I've caught a serial killer or two. I'd prefer - to never have to do it again." He sets the cup down and rubs his face briefly. "I'm sorry, that was unnecessary."

"It's quite all right, Detective Graham. I'm sorry to have made you uncomfortable."

"No, please." Graham holds up a hand, then tucks it back around his mug. "I shouldn't have - you're not that kind of Doctor after all." He smiles wryly for a moment. Hannibal tilts his head. He wishes abruptly that he were.

"I have several doctorates," Hannibal gestures elegantly at his study wall. "One may apply to the situation."

Detective Graham's expression turns abruptly guarded, his smile more a baring of teeth. "I see."

He's hit a nerve, clearly. Hannibal watches Graham stand and walk to the row of frames. He walks past Johns Hopkins, but his steps hitch at University of Maryland. "Neuropsychology," Hannibal comments mildly. "But I don't practice."

"Minds are harder to fix than bodies," Graham murmurs.

"Some do not require fixing, merely understanding."

"Some work better unfixed." Graham drains his second coffee. "Anyway, Doctor, thank you for your time. I've taken up enough of it."

"My pleasure, Detective," Hannibal demurs. "I appreciate your attention to my - situation." He's treated to another smile, slightly less aggressive. He follows Graham back down the stairs.

"I'll take this evidence directly to the CSU," Graham tells him, accepting his jacket from Hannibal in the hall. "Be careful, Doctor. You have my number if you need it."

"I'll bear it in mind." He watches him slip it on and step out into the cool night. Hannibal senses he's mis-stepped with Graham, and realizes he regrets this. He watches his slouching disappearance into the night with growing intrigue.


	2. Chapter 2

Will delivers Doctor Lecter's anonymous note and the prints he took to the lab himself as soon as he’s left his house, getting a raised eyebrow from Price. "Working late again, Graham. Don't you have a life?"

"Not noticeably, no." They both sign for the evidence transfer, then Will asks, "Have you found a match in the database for the Delaney bullet?"

Price shakes his head. "Partial match with a few other recovered slugs, but no match with a gun. You know how it is."

Will grimaces: he does. "Thanks anyway."

"My pleasure." When Price says it, it's sardonic, but it reminds Will of Dr. Lecter anyway. He sits while Price runs the prints- he's got nowhere else to be- but his mind returns to Lecter's study.

The visit had been - both peaceful and disconcerting. Lecter moves so steadily, like every step holds carefully balanced weight. Will wonders if he has ever been a dancer, or if surgery has just honed his movements. He would believe either. The wall of degrees had painted an interesting picture as well. The books, too. Thousands of them.

Will knows there's more money in New Orleans than he's ever had personal experience of, but Lecter is a cut above. He wonders how he ended up here. He could have asked, he supposes. But that would have presumed a lot. He's not even sure why he's interested- he's just intrigued that he is. He's concerned, too.

"Graham." Price nudges him. Will manages not to recoil too noticeably.

"What?"

"I've got a print off the letter. It's a partial, but enough to get a match."

That gets Will on his feet and crowding closer to the computer screen. "Whose is it?"

"Max Teller. Small time thief, dealer and known associate of various unpleasant types."

"Which unpleasant types?" He shoulders in to look at the list. "He does jobs for the Delaney crew, why would he be working for Delaney's killer?"

"Sounds like a question for a detective," Price says dryly.

"A Narcotics detective," Will agrees, wondering if Katz is still working nights. "Can you get me copies of this?"

"I'll print the reports off now. Call Katz and see if she's in before you go running off without them."

"Thanks," Will replies, breathing out through his nose. He picks up Price's desk phone and calls Narco. "Katz," he says brusquely as soon as someone answers.

He gets passed on, a bit of chatter, and then that easy voice again. "Gee, you miss me that much already?"

"Every day," he drawls. "I have a lead I need your help with." He adds, "I'll throw in another coffee sacrifice."

"I like you," she says cheerfully. "Come on up, I'll clear off a chair in my office."

"I'll be right there." He hangs up, taking the reports off Price gratefully. "Thanks for this."

"Anytime, Graham." It's flippant but still appreciated.

Will hauls his files together and carts himself up to the Narcotics department. As usual at this time of night, it's sparsely staffed. "How did you pull this shift, anyway?" Will asks Katz when she pops out of an office and waves him over.

"Lost a bet. What about you?"

"Habitual insomnia?" he offers.

Katz hands him a muffin. "Eat this, I'm hungry just looking at you. Tell me about your development."

He hands back a steaming paper cup of coffee. "The doctor from Tulane, he called me this evening about a threatening note. I went and collected it, and the lab was able to pull a print." He hands a copy of Teller's rap sheet over. She pores over the report for a moment, sipping her coffee and then frowning when it burns her.

"We've pulled this kid before. Let me see if I can find a last known address."

"Katz," Will says, watching her type, "if we can pull him in, you'll do the interview with me, yeah?"

"Sure, if you want."

"You know this case better than me."

"Did you just admit someone else is good at their job? Careful with that."

"If you insist; I won't do it again." He eats the muffin without enthusiasm, watching her type and click.

"I have an address for Teller in the Seventh Ward," she says after a while. "Want me to have him picked up?"

"Sure." He sips his coffee and thinks how terrible it is. Not like Dr. Lecter's coffee. Will should have asked him what he uses.

Katz calls in a code on Teller and it's picked up almost immediately. "Sounds like it's a slow one out there."

"For now." Will rubs at his forehead with a sigh. She gives him a grin.

"Don't be like that. So, what did the note he delivered say?"

"‘Stay out of our business or you're next,'" Will quotes dryly.

"They don't even try anymore," Katz says. "They could have at least cut letters out of the paper."

Smiling against his better judgment, Will checks his watch. "I'm going to try to get a few hours of sleep," he says, mostly to see Katz's expression.

"I strongly support this decision. In fact, to help you out with that, I'll let you give me the rest of your coffee."

"What would I do without you?" He slides it toward her.

"I'll call you when they bring Teller in."

"Thanks, Katz." He smiles.

"Beverly," she corrects.

"Beverly," he nods, standing up. "All right."

"Night, Graham."

 "Will."

She grins. "Will."

He ducks his head and lets himself back out into the hallway, heading for the elevators. He heads home, showers, and drinks a couple fingers of scotch. He's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and he only dreams a little. It's about as much as he can ask.

*

When he wakes, there's no phone call, just a text message from Beverly saying she's letting Teller stew for now and she'll see him tomorrow. He breathes a soft sigh of relief that they found him. Rats like that can be slippery. He wonders if they had to chase him. He'll find out once he gets in there.

He showers up and gets dressed, going out of his way to avoid the mirror for anything other than retrieving toothpaste and aspirin. Shaving is beyond him, as usual. He steps into his shoes and out the door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

At the station, he goes straight for Thibodeau's office to check in. He's free, so he beckons him inside. Will closes the door behind him.

"Did you actually sleep last night?" Thibodeau asks.

"Why do people keep asking me that?" Will snaps.

"Past experience?" the captain suggests mildly. "Let it go, Graham. Are you here to update me?"

"The surgeon who saved Delaney before he was assassinated called me last night after a threatening note was delivered to his home." Will rubs his temples against his headache. "Price ran it through, got a print, and we've got the guy who delivered it in for questioning. Price is still running the slug from the scene through ballistics."

"You'll do the interview this morning?"

"With Katz from Narcotics."

Thibodeau quirks a brow at that, reluctantly pleased. "Teamwork, Will?"

"I'm growing as a person."

That gets him a grimace. "Play nice if Bianchi's there."

"Shan't." Will says, letting himself out. He doesn't look back for Thibodeau's expression. He's probably smiling.

Will goes to find Beverly, dodging a few curious looks as he does. "Got you some breakfast," she says when she spots him.

"I could have eaten already," he points out, and she laughs.

"Sit down, eat."

"Only if you fill me in while I do."

She gives him a grin. "I'm surprised you waited so long to ask."

"I was distracted."

She hands him a breakfast sandwich. "You seem like a meat eater. Here. Eat." She flips a folder open and summarizes the details of Teller's collar. He ran all right.

Will eats and listens and tries not to choke at Beverly's use of the words "slimy little shit".

"Of course," she concludes, "we could have arrested him on about four different counts, including possession, so he's probably plenty ready to talk by now."

"Good," Will sips his coffee. "Let's go. Will Bianchi be joining us?"

"I think he's going to want to interview him on separate charges."

Will's relieved: Bianchi is a good cop, but he's got a bull-in-a-china-shop air to him and a wide, pink face that makes Will think of ham. "Cross referencing for the drugs, I guess."

"You got it."

"But the homicide takes precedence."

"Well, the Delaneys have been under investigation for years, so I don't know he'll see it that way, but by all means share your thoughts." She grins brightly.

Will grimaces at her again. "I will."

She laughs again.

 "I hope we work together more often. Bianchi needs that."

He smiles, genuine. He likes Bev, he realizes. He throws his sandwich wrapper away and stands up. "Well. Shall we?"

She nods, getting up to gather the files. Will's starting the process of preparing himself for the interview. He finds them easier than he ever thought he would. His colleagues tend to find it... unnerving. As do interviewees. Will doesn't mind. Or sometimes notice.

Today, that's not the case. Max Teller is a reedy-voiced man with stringy hair and the look of being recently resuscitated. He stares at Will with grey eyes from the moment he enters the small interview room. Will stares back, unconcerned. Beverly does most of the talking to start with, an easy back and forth of questions, answers, near-answers.

Teller is clearly familiar with the routine. Mostly immune, too, until Will looks at him- really looks.

Something has him scared, deep down where he thinks he can hide it. A threat, of course, on his life- but not just that. Will looks down at his file. The usual, really. Something else, too. He has a kid.

"Your daughter will be better off in the long run if you stop doing favors for psychopaths," Will says softly and suddenly.

Teller flinches. "You don't know shit, shut your mouth about her."

"I know everything I need to know." He shrugs. "I know you've gotten yourself in a bad situation and now you have to keep playing postman to keep her out of harm's way. You have to know by now that we've searched your apartment. We've got everything you have there, enough to put you away, enough to put a lot of interest on whatever debt you owe these people."

He twitches again. "If it ain't about the drugs, what do you want?"

"You delivered a letter, night before last," Will says, easily, "we want to know who gave it to you." Naked fear in his eyes. Beverly glances at Will, hesitant. "If you tell me," Will reasons, "I can see about getting you and your kid into protective custody."

"It's not any kind of life for a child," Beverly adds. "But you know that."

Teller looks from one to the other. "'Protective custody'? That's a fancy word for prison." He says, lip curling.

"Better than dead," Will says coldly. Teller's face shifts. Will waits, eyes flinty.

Beverly chips in easily. "Look, Max, the warrants we've got on you- there's no way you're avoiding jail time unless you can get a damn good lawyer, but if you help us now it'll be taken into consideration, your kid and their mother will be in protective custody until the coast is clear, and we will get a murderer off the streets."

Will senses the moment he decides to fold. "He can't kill you if he's in prison," he adds, softly. That doesn't mean the rest of the syndicate wouldn't come after Teller, but Will doesn't say that. Teller's fear is clearly specific to one person only. He bites his lip, rubbing his eyes. Finally, he sighs.

"The Delaneys have a big time turf war with the Chargois brothers, right?"

"Right," Beverly echoes.

"So they shot Delaney Senior, I don't know, all I heard was they didn't shoot him good enough. They sent their cousin to finish the job; Al. He said to me that some doctor had seen him."

"A world-class surgeon," Will says softly, not sure why he feels defensive on the matter. "This Mr. Al - Chargois, is it? Can't possibly want to deprive Tulane; deprive New Orleans of such a gifted man."

"He wanted Delaney dead, so you tell me," Teller shrugs.

"Delaney was hardly a positive contributor. You have to realize this. But you – you’ve run for the Delaney’s before, and now you’re doing the Chargois’ bidding, what’s with that?"

Teller’s expression twists. Will tilts his head.

“One of the Delaney’s wanted Delaney Senior dead to clear a path. They paid you to get in with the opposition. You spread a little intel, gave them an insight to where Robert Delaney would be. You probably got paid double.”

"Look," Teller holds his hands up, "I don't want anyone dead. But Al has me on a fucking rope. I'm not giving you the guy's fucking shoe size. He wanted me to take him a note. I did. That's all I know."

"That's all I need to know, too," Will murmurs- they can let Bianchi work his connection the Delaney’s out. That’s Narco territory. "Max, I need to know where to find him."

Teller drops his head into his hands. Will glances at Beverly. She meets his gaze. He's not sure what she sees, but her mouth firms in a line. "Max, start talking, or any potential deals are off the table."

"Okay, okay."

Beverly takes the information down on a notepad. Will doesn't need to. They wrap it up, and leave Teller to contend with Bianchi.

Beverly touches his elbow as they leave the interview room, drawing him aside in the hallway. "Thanks for your help in there," he starts.

"I think that's my line," she says. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"To push him on the kid."

"He uh, has a spare room," Will mumbles, "the photos from his apartment showed a single bed and a star lamp. And there was a woven bracelet on his wrist. Something a kid would make." Other than that, it was just a feeling, like they all are. Something in the set of his shoulders.

"Well, it was a good instinct to push on it," Beverly says, "I guess we should wait for Bianchi before we make a move on Chargois."

"I'm probably not gonna do that."

"Why am I not surprised?" Beverly sighs.

"I'm not sure."

"Your reputation precedes you, I guess."

"Apparently not."

"Will - don't go after Chargois alone."

"I won't, you're coming with me, and we're taking backup."

"Smart boy."

*

It's not thirty minutes before they're on their way to the address Teller gave them, backup rolling behind. Bianchi seemed content to keep grilling Teller, but Will suspects he won't be later. Beverly pulls up short of the address Teller gave and they trade strategy over the radio with back up. Will still carries his service pistol, but it's been a long time since he's used it. He tries to remember that the place might be empty. He hopes this doesn't drag out. And that Al is as eager to sell his family down the road as Teller was.

In the end, the uniforms do most of the work. Teller's intel was correct, and several of the Chargois boys are at the high-end residence - including Al. He has a transparent alibi for the murder, and his foot-size is consistent with the prints found at the scene. Will recognizes him from stance alone - he saw the guy slam a door hard enough to stun another grown man. He'll have to ask Lecter to ID him, though, just in case they need the extra evidence.

When the day is over, when all the evidence from the premises is seized and filed, enough product recovered to also please Bianchi in Narcotics, Will retreats to his desk and picks up the phone.

"Doctor Lecter?" he asks quietly when he answers.

"Speaking," Lecter says pleasantly.

"It's Detective Graham calling. We've made some progress with your note. Would you be able to come in and look at a lineup?"

"Of course, consider my eyes at your disposal."

"Thank you. Tomorrow morning would be fine, do you know how to get to the precinct?"

"I believe so." Doctor Lecter sounds, for some reason, like he's smiling.

"The individuals that we've taken into custody... I'm hopeful that this will be the end to the threats, Doctor."

"I have every confidence you're right, Detective. Thank you."

"Ten A.M.?" Will asks, trying not to fidget for some reason.

"I'll be there..." He sounds like he's trying to stop himself from further conversation. Will gets the absurd thought he might have been about to ask after his health. It's absurd, because it's not like it matters to him in any way.

"Great, I appreciate that you're a busy man, Doctor Lecter."

"Vacation time is one of the benefits of seniority, Detective." Again, it feels like finding excuses to make conversation. Will is not used to it.

"I'll be careful not to waste it, even so. Let me know if you're unsure of anything - some people can find the procedure stressful. You'll be accompanied at all times by an officer, and the individuals in the lineup will not be able to see you, nor will they know who is identifying them."

"Will it be you accompanying me?"

"It can be, if you'd be more comfortable with that." He frowns at himself. He's not usually so accommodating, but the doctor's politeness, it seems, is catching.

"If it's not too much trouble, a familiar face would be a welcome reassurance."

"Then I will see you tomorrow." He hangs up. Thibodeau is hovering at the corner of his desk, eyebrows raised. Will hadn't noticed him. "Captain," he acknowledges him.

"I'm here to say well done," he replies, still looking a bit like he just walked in on something he shouldn't have.

"Thank you," Will says hesitantly. "It was a lucky break. The fingerprint..."

"It was some good interviewing, I've heard."

Will shrugs. "I'm trained as a profiler. I did my job."

"Just say 'thank you, sir', Graham."

"Thank you, sir," Will parrots obediently, with just a touch of acid. He nods and moves off, leaving Will to puzzle over Doctor Lecter some more.

He's seen the man's home; they're not in the same social circles in the least. The notion of him being pleased to hear from Will is so alien that he can't quite believe that's it. Maybe it's - curiosity? It has to be that, doesn't it?

*

 The question follows him home late that night, and back into work early the next morning. He's had a full night's sleep - a rarity – but he still feels dazed. It might have had something to do with the larger-than-average nightcap that’s got him nursing his third cup of coffee by the time he's paged down to the desk.

Doctor Lecter is waiting to be checked in, as immaculate as he'd been the morning Will saw him. He doesn't smile at the sight of him, but his eyes take on a reflection of warmth as he stands to greet Will. Will conjures up a smile of his own.

"Doctor Lecter, good morning." He doesn't extend his hand to shake, and Lecter doesn't seem to expect it. "Come with me, I'll brief you on what to expect."

Lecter nods and follows, long stride keeping up with Will easily. He looks around with a barely concealed intrigue. "I heard the guard is going to be doing the same lineup at a later date."

"Yes, a nurse from Tulane is coming later today as well - she was on shift this morning... We appreciate you all coming in," he adds belatedly.

"I appreciate you making good on your promise to protect me, Detective," Lecter says, giving him a warm once-over.

"I don't think I did much."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Will meets his eyes steadily. The doctor does not look away, even as they get to the interview suite. He keeps watching Will, head tilted like a bird. Will has to look away. "Do you want anything to uh- drink? They won't be ready for a few minutes."

"I'm fine, Detective, but thank you."

Will nods, taking them into the small suite furnished with a few chairs and a desk. One of the walls is one-way glass. Doctor Lecter takes everything in. Will watches him do it.

"It's interesting to see all this," Hannibal offers. Will notices he does not sound embarrassed, like many civilians seem to be in these situations.

"I guess I've gotten used to it," he replies. "TV gets a few things right."

"I'm sure it does." Hannibal sits himself down in one of the chairs, one knee folding over the other, the seams of his immaculate suit trousers crisply pressed.

"So how did you find him? Fingerprints?"

"The courier left one on the note, yes. When we brought him in for questioning he gave up a great deal of information, thankfully."

"To whom did he give it up?" Hannibal asks, though he doesn't seem surprised by the answer.

"To a colleague and I," Will says, a bit mystified the line of questioning.

Hannibal nods, and then smooths his jacket down a little. "I'm quite at my leisure to wait here, if you have other business to attend to."

"Being your escort is currently what business I have," Will says, just a touch dryly. "It shouldn't be much longer."

Hannibal gives him a twitch of his mouth that Will understands is practically beaming. "Very well, Detective. After our conversation the other night, I recalled why I found you familiar."

"I don't remember ever arresting you," Will's dryness increases, though he's fighting a smile.

"Nor I - though I do recall an article about you on a fairly mediocre crime journalism website."

Will is sure his face reflects his utter disdain. "I'm surprised you saw that, Doctor."

"I can't blame my curiosity entirely on my own desire to cut people open, I'm afraid," Lecter says, affecting shame - poorly, Will thinks.

"It wasn't my proudest moment," Will mutters.

"Catching a serial killer wasn't your proudest moment?" Will bites his lip. He's said too much. Doctor Lecter gives him a lifeline. "Or did you mean your remarks to the journalist who was interviewing you?"

He meant his breakdown, but one was merely a symptom of the other. "I didn't mean - that," Will offers, lamely, and then he frowns. "Wait, does this mean you Googled me?"

Lecter spreads his hands, a mute ‘guilty.' Will snorts a bit, in disbelief.

"Is that all right?" Lecter asks.

"It's - it's fine," Will chuckles a bit.

"You understand, I mostly meet other medical professionals these days."

"Looking to expand to unstable police detectives?" Will's grin feels like a grimace again.

"Perhaps." Hannibal arranges his hands delicately in his lap. Will has no idea what to say to him now, so he paces up to the window to look out into the other room.

"I suppose knowing a doctor might be useful," he jokes, somewhat lamely.

"Would it sound like self-interest if I agreed?"

Will glances at him, and the doctor is smiling much more clearly now. "I'd be guilty of the same if it did," Will says.

 "Perhaps an agreement - no guilt," Lecter suggests.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Very good. Might I suggest another agreement?"

“Sure." Will turns away from the glass - Lecter has his attention now.

"Dinner, to thank you for your reassurance."

"I don't know if that's -" appropriate, Will wants to say. Lecter tilts his head. "Necessary," he relents.

"I'm afraid I disagree. How inappropriate could dinner between two professionals be?"

"Not very, I suppose." He hesitates. The Doctor looks... something uncomfortably like hopeful.

Will is saved for the time being by a buzzer sounding an activity on the far side of the glass. He goes to stand behind Lecter as the suspects are lined up. Al, and two other Chargois cousins. A few other prisoners round out the numbers. "Do you need them to speak?" Will asks.

"I think that would be best," Doctor Lecter says, standing up.

"They'll read out a generic sentence for us," Will supplies, popping his head out into the hallway to request it from the guards. When he re-enters the room, Lecter has fallen into a posture of absolute stillness. Will watches him as the line up reads on cue. The Doctor doesn't make any motion to indicate recognition to any of the voices, but Will sees him close his eyes in a ghost of his own eidetic methods.

Then he opens them again and looks intently at each figure. His nostrils flare, like he's scenting the air. He looks at Will, finally. "Number four," he says without a hint of hesitation.

It's Al Chargois. Will nods. "Thank you, Doctor Lecter."

"Thank you," he replies, turning his face back to Will.

"For what?"

"For everything you’ve done," Lecter says smoothly. He doesn't mention dinner again, but Will is still thinking on it. He's faintly baffled by the doctor. It's been a long time since he felt like this.

"I can walk you out now," he says. Lecter gives him a pert smile. "About dinner -" Will murmurs. "I'm sorry if I sounded... rude. I... am not very sociable." Lecter opens his mouth, but Will gestures for another moment to finish. "Yes," he says. "Thank you."

The warmth returns to Lecter's eyes. "You're sure you won't be uncomfortable, Detective? I wouldn't wish to put you in an awkward position."

Will stifles a smile and tries not to imagine he heard a double entendre in there somewhere. "I'm always uncomfortable."

"Well, let us see what we can do about that."

"Hitting me on the head might work."

"As a surgeon, I cannot corroborate that sentiment."

Will shrugs. "Worth a try." The doctor gives him a little huff of laughter.

"In my professional opinion, it's not, but we'll keep it in mind?"

Will finds himself biting his lip against a grin. "All right."

"When are you free, Detective Graham?"

"Oh, ah- I usually have Sundays and Mondays off, though I'm on call sometimes."

"Monday evening, perhaps?"

"All right." He nods, searching for something to do with his hands, settling on tucking them nervously into his pockets.

 "May I cook for you?" Lecter asks.

Will stalls, floored once again. "You don't have to."

"Cooking is... something of a passion of mine."

"Well then, uh, it'd be my pleasure." Will tries not to clench his eyes shut at just how odd that sounded.

"Perfect, shall we say seven?"

"Sure." Will nods.

Lecter smiles. They're at the reception desk now, awkwardly hovering- or at least Will is. "I'll see you Monday then, Doctor Lecter."

"Please," he says. "Call me Hannibal." He gives Will's shoulder a not-quite squeeze, and bids him farewell. Will watches him leave and remember that he did not flinch from the touch. He avoids the receptionist's gaze, though, as he goes back up to his office.

***

In the days that follow, Hannibal does not allow himself to think too clearly on the motivation behind inviting Detective Graham to dinner. Instead he immerses himself in his work, his studies, and finding the right recipe. Hannibal doesn't know him quite well enough yet to craft a menu for him, and he finds it frustrating.

In the end, he opts for Southern influences - Detective Graham at least has an evident heritage to draw inspiration from. The market is kind to Hannibal with fresh ingredients. He uses his Sunday for prep, and when he gets home from the hospital on Monday, he starts to cook.

He sets his stereo system to play a classical compilation while he works. Something French to go along with the menu. The music makes him think of the radio playing in the morgue in Paris, while he kept company with the silent dead. His hands move over the meat as they did then, too, with care and pride.

Detective Graham will appreciate the complexities of the menu, he thinks. He seems to react to everything from within a great chasm of emotion, well-concealed behind cool blue eyes. It's irresistible, which Hannibal thinks only adds to his self-avowed discomfort. He smiles at the thought, and then looks up at a knock on the door. He is prompt. That's pleasing to him as well. He removes his apron and straightens his waistcoat, going to open the door.

Graham has brought a bottle of Montrachet that he turns nervously in his hands where he's stood. He is wearing a shirt and dinner jacket, Hannibal notices. "Good evening, Detective," he greets.

"It's uh- it's Will."

"Will," Hannibal corrects warmly. "May I take that for you?"

"Yeah, sure." He comes in at Hannibal's welcoming arm motion, standing uncertainly at the door for a moment before he hands over the wine. "It's- how are you?"

"Very well, thank you. I left work at three, so I've had a relaxing afternoon. And you?"

He's still examining his shoes. Hannibal examines the wine and leads him through to the kitchen to uncork it while they talk. Will hovers in the doorway. "Just... yeah, tuned up my car a little, read some."

"Anything interesting in your reading?"

"Just journals. There's always stuff to keep up with in forensics."

"Do you have further career aspirations in that area?"

Will ranges his head slightly, gauging his own reaction, possibly. "That depends on... the outcome of a few things."

"What sorts of things?" Hannibal hands him a glass.

"Thank you- hm." He thinks about his answer. "My work in forensics... anyone can do it, if they have a degree, I guess. The work I do now, especially the consulting stuff... not everyone has the stomach for. Not even sure I have the stomach for it some days."

"With the FBI?"

"Yeah." Will nods.

"Have you ever considered working for them on a more permanent basis? It would mean a move, of course."

A startled look. Hannibal takes an almost instinctive inch-step back.

"A little early for career advice don't you think, Doctor?"

"Curiosity," Hannibal soothes. "I did my residency in the area, I'm rather fond of it."

"Maryland, Virginia? It's okay. Prefer some place quieter."

"Yes," Hannibal agrees. He gestures. "New Orleans is not exactly quiet."

"No," Will murmurs.

"Longing for silence, Will?"

"Can't even find it with the dead." He takes a stoppering sip of his wine like he's said too much.

Hannibal gives him a smile, encouraging. "The dead are at least somewhat more forgiving."

"They have to be. The living aren’t."

"But the living change. The dead remain the same. So what do you want, Will, change or decay?"

Will hesitates, eyes bright with - something. "I want the dead to change," he murmurs.

Hannibal lets the silence fall for a beat. He thinks of his own fleeting notions of time; reversal, rejection. He feels a throb of sympathy. “Is it the lost lives of the victims in your charge you wish to alter, or someone closer to home?”

"You ask a lot of questions," Will says.

"Should I apologize?"

"No, but you could reciprocate."

"Feel free to ask me anything you like." He stifles a smile at the expression on Will's face.

"Do you use intimacy as a weapon, or to afford a more genuine conversation?"

"I suppose it depends on the situation."

"What about this one?"

"I don't believe I need a weapon against you, Will."

"You dislike small talk, and think I do too, then."

Hannibal sips his wine, savoring the crispness. "Would I be correct?"

"Would I?" He gives Hannibal one perfectly arched brow. Hannibal would be irritated by his contrariness if he wasn't too busy being charmed by it.

"I believe you know the answer to that." He goes to the stove to stir his food. Will hovers behind him, voice soft when he talks again.

"I am generally not a gifted conversationalist, Doctor. I too readily turn to exit strategies."

"Save them for after dessert." The sauce is ready; he pauses to pull plates from the warming oven. "This is ready, if you'd like to top up our wine?"

Will does so. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Not at all. Please go sit and I'll serve us both."

Will takes the wine, Hannibal not far behind. He stops to put his jacket back on and carries in the starter.

"This looks delicious," Will says, eyeing his plate like he's not sure he succeeded in sounding genuine. Hannibal obligingly explains the preparation. Will glances at Hannibal for a cue on which fork to use, and Hannibal graciously obliges him that, too.

"I based tonight's menu on Creole cuisine in your honor," he says. He notices the bridge of Will's nose going pink; the tips of his ears.

"Oh. Do you - what do you normally enjoy cooking?"

"I admit it's a fairly new venture, but I've always been inclined toward French or Japanese culinary traditions."

"What is a new venture? Cooking?"

"Yes," Hannibal nods, "or at least cooking to this extent."

"I wouldn't have guessed. How long have you been in residence at Tulane?"

"Only eighteen months now."

"And before that?"

"I was cutting my teeth in various other hospitals. Before becoming a surgeon I was interested in being a diagnostician."

"That explains the questions," Will murmurs. He takes a bite of his starter and frowns at his mouthful. Hannibal watches him. He's intrigued by the frown, even when it softens into a half-smile and Will adds, "it's really good, thank you."

"You're welcome," Hannibal says quietly. He can't stop watching Will. When he forgets to control his face, he's astonishingly expressive.

"I don't think I realized deconstructed jambalaya could be this good," he says, mildly.

"The thin slices bring out the flavor, and the sushi rice adds a different textural element. And of course, I make my own sausage." Hannibal takes a bite of his own starter.

Will smiles into his wine glass, possibly to hide it. "It's delicious, Doctor Lecter. I'm... I'm not a cook, so I appreciate anyone who is."

"That's nice of you to say, Will. But I am proof you can always learn."

"Sure. I've definitely been accused of being a psycho-hobbyist before." Will nods.

"What hobbies are those?"

"I fish, uh, well, I used to when I had time. I built a house when I was younger. That was uh, really a full-time hobby."

"I imagine it was." Hannibal glances at Will's hands, seeing numerous small scars. Will doesn't like to be touched, he recalls, so he’s felt no evidence of callouses. He had flinched away from handshakes before.

"That was around Baton Rouge. Never even lived there, I sold it right off the bat," Will muses.

"Shame," Hannibal says. "Never getting to live inside your creation."

"You don't get to keep yours either," Will comments.

"I consider myself more of a repairman," Hannibal smiles.

"I suppose that's true."

"Certainly. The human body is more like a machine than you'd think."

"So you repair them and fuel them," Will says. "Don't you ever just get sick of them?"

"The majority of the ones I encounter are unconscious, thankfully."

"Does that fall under the dislike of small talk?"

"You'd be surprised how tedious delicate conversations about life and death procedures can be."

"I'd imagine they bring animal instincts to the fore."

"Most animal instincts are predictable. Easy to curb. There is very little room for flight in a surgery ward."

"Fight, then."

"For their lives, I expect." Will is quiet for a moment, and Hannibal interjects, "Are you ready for the main course?"

"Yes. Please." Will nods. He takes the empty glasses with him as he heads to the kitchen. He has just the thing to pair with their main, of course, already breathing on the counter. And brandy for dessert. Hannibal wonders if Will drinks often. He suspects he does, though it would be terribly rude to ask. He's not sure he shouldn't advise Will get a taxi home. Or drive him himself - but it is a very good brandy. The thought of seeing his home is compelling, though. Hannibal has more than the usual amount of curiosity about such things pertaining to Will Graham.

He takes a tray back through the dining room. Will looks up at the scent, apparently. He'd been studying the centerpiece of the table: an elaborate display of flowers, shells and grasses.

"Here we are," Hannibal murmurs.

Will watches his hands steadily. "So, Doctor, do you have any other hobbies? I noticed you have a harpsichord."

"Well spotted, Will. I play and compose for it, yes." He serves Will his plate. "I also play the theremin."

"The - isn't that just -" Will waves his hands evocatively.

"Perhaps 'play' was a liberal word to use," Hannibal agrees. "You're welcome to try," he says politely.

Will raises his eyebrows. "I don't know how successful that would be." He picks up his glass. "Try me after this I guess."

"Very well." Hannibal sets a plate in front of him. "Higado criolla - liver with creole salsa. A bit of a liberty, it's South American."

"I've never had liver," Will comments, "smells good."

"It's good for you," Hannibal tells him, "rich in iron."

Will waits until Hannibal picks up his cutlery, then follows suit. He makes a soft sound when he takes his first bite.

"It's so tender," he murmurs after he swallows. “Delicious.”

Hannibal feels a flash of pleasure at the expression on his face. "Thank you, Will. I'm so glad."

"Thank _you_ ," Will chuckles, "I don't uh - I don't usually eat like this."

Hannibal hazards he doesn't usually eat, period. He's quite thin, in the face even. "I like cooking," he shrugs, "nice to do it for someone other than myself. And to experiment with new ingredients, of course."

"Of course," Will says, still sounding mystified.

Hannibal gives him a polite smile, careful not to show teeth. "You sound as though the thought of cooking for others is not quite the cause for pleasure I think it is."

"It's just never occurred to me it could be a cause for pleasure, I guess."

"Cooking for you? Is it the thought of me going to the effort you find hard to justify?"

"No, it's not that -" which sounds like a lie - "just – I guess it’s rare I experiment on my palate, never mind someone else’s. Unless it's trying different coffee places to escape the dismal swill at the station."

"Perhaps you should make room for more experimentation in your life, Will." He looks dubious at best.

Mistrustful. Perhaps of his own instincts. Hannibal sees a resistance in him; used to denying himself what he wants. Hannibal is as unfamiliar with the concept as he would be breathing water. "Perhaps I can help. I'm looking for similar opportunities myself, after all."

"Why?" Will says, then takes another bite of his entree.

"A new city, a consuming career. There are not many people who would be comfortable talking about things I have seen."

"No, I mean... Why me."

"Why not you?"

"So many reasons."

"With respect, I can probably be the judge of that."

"Well, then. I tried to warn you."

"I'll bear that in mind." Hannibal offers him another smile, then applies himself to his own meal.

The liver is exceptional, as he knew it would be purely from the butchering process. Eating quietly is its own kind of pleasure, as well as observing Will, who is complacently quiet for a long time before he looks up at Hannibal.

"So you went to John Hopkins... Before, you lived in France?"

"Yes, I did my initial medical training there."

Will pauses again, apparently stumped by the small talk again. "Where are you from originally?" He colors. "I'm sorry, that's a boring question."

"It's not if the answer is interesting to you. I was born in Lithuania, and moved to France when I was in my teens."

"So Lecter is Lithuanian. I wondered."

"It is. As is Hannibal."

"After the warlord?"

"And a long line of the counts Lecter."

"Counts?" Will's brows shoot up. He takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. "And I grew up in trailer parks," he half laughs.

"I'm afraid my upbringing was not much different initially, titles aside." Will tilts his head and makes another brief attempt at eye contact. Hannibal sips his drink. "My apologies, not very pleasant dinner conversation. What do your parents do, Will?"

"Did," he murmurs.

Hannibal pauses, fork raised. "I never normally have to apologize this much."

"Don't," Will says. "There's no way to know such things. Unless your Internet search was much more thorough than I imagined."

"If it were, I would have been more tactful."

"You're extremely polite, Doctor."

So is Will; his table manners are impeccable, for all his discomfort. Hannibal wonders how encompassing his talent for mimicry is.

"Indecorousness is intolerable to me," he explains easily.

Will nods, looking back down at his plate. Hannibal sees him considering his own behavior. He waits patiently.

"My uh, my father was a diesel mechanic. My mother passed away when I was a child and we didn’t talk about her much, but I believe she was a teacher."

"I see. Did your father teach you how to work with your hands, then?"

"He did." Will nods.

"Hence your hobby house, I suppose.”

Will is watching him, Hannibal thinks, just every now and then. He's not obvious about it, but Hannibal imagines he doesn't miss much. He wonders what he deduces. Asking would be rude, perhaps.

He lets Will carry the plates back into the kitchen for him after their mains, while he brings the glasses. "We could have dessert in the study, if you like."

"Sure." Will starts to run water to wash up. Hannibal stills behind him for a minute, stunned by his easiness- possibly overwrought with it. Will glances over his shoulder.

"Only fair, right?" He gives Hannibal a quick, stunning smile. It's then that Hannibal feels the first quick, hard throb of desire. He can't quite qualify it- not anything as base as carnal, not so benign as fondness. A twilight between the two. It's twisting and strange and enough to make his breathing skip softly.

"Be careful with the glasses, please," he murmurs, "they're delicate."

"Will you dry, then? I'm sure you have a gentler touch than I do."

Hannibal picks up a cloth, feeling foreign in his own skin. It's disconcerting, though not entirely unenjoyable. Will makes him feel things he wasn't sure were in his repertoire. The suddenness of it is stranding. With anyone else, he's sure it would be unpleasant.

"You're not upset by me invading your space..." Will muses. "So I'm assuming you are... surprised by it. And that's why you're looking at me like that."

"Do I need to apologize again?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Of course not."

He feels seen, though, and like Will is letting him notice it. "You're unusually comfortable, too," he observes.

"Cleanup is something I'm good at."

"Clean body, clean soul?"

"Something like that." It sounds sardonic. Hannibal wants to ask. Will seems to respond to bluntness. He lets himself.

"Does your soul need a washing-up, then?"

"I think we all consider ourselves stained in some ways."

"What stains you?"

Will turns to him, his hands still hanging in the water. His eyes are clear as sky, bright and open and full. He lets Hannibal look. "Time."

Hannibal wants to touch him, but he accepts a crystal wine glass instead. His hands almost shake with restraint. He looks at the rim, carefully turning it in the cloth. When it's dry, he sets it aside and accepts its mate.

"Do you think time has stained you more than average, Will?"

"Yes," Will murmurs. "At least it feels that way."

"Stains are not always blemishes." Hannibal reaches past him to set the glass on the counter at the moment that Will turns, making a startled noise when he finds Hannibal's arm bracketing his waist.

"Ah- no, some stains are intentional, I suppose. They change the state of a material."

"Does this mean you consider your soul... varnished?" Hannibal ticks a smile.

"Darker as I get older, you mean?" Will sounds breathless.

"Harder," Hannibal suggests, "resistant to wear."

"Oh, that," Will smiles sadly up at the ceiling. "No, I doubt it."

"Good. I think the stains add character." Daring a touch to the elbow, Hannibal waits for Will's eyes to drift back down. "Dessert? Brandy?"

Will nods. He looks suddenly wrung out. Hannibal feels an almost physical ache at the need to gentle him.

"Go sit down," he murmurs.

"You don't need help?"

"No, not at all." He watches him go, drying his hands on a dish towel. His scent lingers. Alone, Hannibal allows himself a slow inhalation. Gun smoke, and soap, and Montrachet. He composes himself and makes a tray: two meringues, two glasses of brandy. Will is in the study, gazing at the books. When he turns, Hannibal sees him smile again, small and guarded.

"That looks unbelievable."

"Presentation is part of eating."

"Presentation seems to be part of everything you do."

"You’re quite right. I’ve found it shapes the way we respond to the world around us. Aesthetic pleasure can be a tonic for what ails us when the world does not respond in kind." He sets down the tray.

"I can see how that would be true, yes." Will tucks his hands in his pockets nervously again. "You make the world the one you want to see."

"Yes," Hannibal nods.

"How's that working out for you?"

"A forceful personality can get you rather far in life," Hannibal says. "But so can the ability to construct a world that suits you."

"Sounds like a neat trick." Will sounds rueful as he sits down with his meringue. He grows quiet with the first mouthful, and sighs in obvious pleasure. "Hannibal, that's amazing," he says, both the statement and the name sounding pulled out of him.

Hannibal gives him a warm once over. "Thank you." He joins him in the other chair of the grouping, crossing his legs neatly and tasting his own. Sweet meringue, and cold, smooth cream. Will looks like he's considering poetry while he eats. A taste for sweets, then. "Perhaps next time I'll try my hand at beignets. I didn't have time this evening."

"My dad used to make them," Will murmurs, apparently before he can stop himself. It feels like a small triumph.

"I had only had them in France before I came here," he offers. Will smiles.

"I've never been to France. I'd like to."

"France is beautiful," Hannibal agrees, "but if I had to choose a new destination, I think Italy would be my choice."

"Yeah? I've never been there either." Will's smile looks slightly embarrassed now.

"Perhaps in the future, you will," Hannibal moves on delicately. "What is your favorite thing about New Orleans?"

"The architecture, probably. Or the fishing." Two totally disparate things. Hannibal is so charmed by him.

"I'm not much of a fisherman myself."

Will closes his eyes for a moment. "I love it." It's possibly the strongest opinion Hannibal has heard him express. He looks at his brandy, apparently blaming it for his uncharacteristic openness. "It's peaceful, and quiet, and I just think of the water."

"I see." And he does, quite clearly: Will alone on a bank with nothing but the golden green forest and deep water to whisper in his ears. It's worthy of oils, he thinks, but resolves to try it in pencil later.

"What about you, Doctor? What do you like about New Orleans?"

"The life," Hannibal answers.

"That's vague."

"The city, the river, even the wildlife in the bayous... it's all such vibrant life. Sometimes desperate, sometimes quiet."

"And above it all, the sky indifferent," Will hums.

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs, body stirring again. He feels known. He was right about this beautiful, sad-eyed, and thorny man.

"We should do this again sometime," Will says, like he's reading his mind.

"I agree."

That gets him a faint smile. "I don't usually, uh, make friends easily."

"I'm not concerned with usually," Hannibal says bluntly. "Only with our friendship."

Will nods in understanding. "Then I won't be either."

"You don't strike me as a man who often concerns himself with the opinions of others, Will."

Will laughs. "No. But you did say you found rudeness - intolerable."

"I have yet to find you guilty of rudeness."

"You'd be one of the few, I suppose."

"I suppose one has to be aware of the difference between rudeness and directness."

"And you are."

"I try to be."

"I imagine there is not much you aren't aware of."

"I could say the same for you."

"If I allow myself." Will sips his drink.

"You make an effort to stay unaware?"

Will closes his eyes. "I have a... condition."

Hannibal tilts his head. Of course. "You're on the spectrum."

"That covers a lot of ground."

"That's why it's a spectrum; it's you that knows if the term applies to you."

"Yes," Will agrees, eyes still closed. "It's closer to Asperger's... or what doctors understand Asperger's to be."

"Diagnosed?" Hannibal asks. Will just laughs.

"I'm not sure a doctor could tell me anything about my brain that I didn't know already." The way Will meets his eyes is the most aggression Hannibal has seen from him. "I'm sure as a doctor, you don't like hearing that."

"I certainly wouldn't assume I know better than you when it comes to your own mind. You understand the workings of brains uncomfortably well, I imagine."

"Thanks," Will sighs. "I have to be aware, of course. Of how most people will see me. It's... tiring."

"Because of your work?"

"Yes, mostly. But in other ways, as well."

"Personal relationships," Hannibal concludes. Will nods. "You accused me of weaponizing intimacy before. Is this a trait you recognized through personal use?" He can tell Will doesn't like the question, yet he clearly does his best to consider it.

"I consider it to be a defensive tactic."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Empathy is a recognition of our own responses in other people."

"You recognize yourself in me."

Will bites his lip. He looks at his drink again. "Maybe. I can step into anyone's shoes, it's one of the things that makes my job so - "

"Hard?" Hannibal offers.

"Both hard and easy. Hard on me. But I didn't mean - maybe I do recognize myself in you, and not just through empathy." He stops talking again, abruptly like the words have simply run out, and stares into his glass of brandy.

"You recognize more fundamental similarities."

 "If that's not presumptuous."

"Presumption is not always a bad thing. Our instincts are nearly always right."

"You sound very sure, Doctor."

"I am sure of my instincts, and thus, yours."

"I'm not sure of anything except my instincts. And most people tell me they're wrong, because of my -"

"No," Hannibal says firmly.

Will takes a breath. "You don't like to be argued with."

"I like to be debated with, on subjects worth debating." Will's mental acuity, neurodivergence aside, is not up for debate.

"I make people uncomfortable," Will says, finally, softly. "There's nothing I can do about it. Sometimes I still try."

"You don't make me uncomfortable," Hannibal assures him.

"You don't seem to be unnerved by much of anything, Doctor."

"I reached my capacity for horror at a young age," Hannibal murmurs.

Will closes his eyes as if to keep from seeing whatever image Hannibal's tone summons. Knowing what he does now, he knows if he tells the story, he'll burn it into Will's brain. He's not sure if he wants that.

"Me too," Will says, eventually.

"You're young now," Hannibal tells him, not without amusement.

"You say it like I'm barely out of puberty."

"No, I don't believe I did." The words prompt him to evaluate Will's appearance though, gaze knowingly appraising. Will shifts, and then stands. Whether it's to avoid or assist Hannibal's examination, he couldn't say. He walks toward the harpsichord, shoulders stiff.

"You do think I'm young, though," he murmurs. He sounds pained by it.

"Age is only ever comparative."

"To what?"

"To one another." This conversation feels like something dangerously close to too much again. Will touches his fingers to the keys of the harpsichord; plays a few notes of a simple tune. "You'll decide for yourself whether my capacity for horror is equal to your own, I suppose."

"I will keep your interests in mind," Hannibal murmurs. "As we grow to be friends." Will pauses, and then gently closes the lid on the harpsichord. "I did offer to play for you," Hannibal reminds him.

"I think I've taken enough of your time and talent for one night, Doctor."

"Some other evening, then."

"Perhaps," Will allows, softly.

"I hope so," Hannibal presses. He stands, watching Will collect their plates on the tray he'd brought up to the study.

"Will," he scolds gently.

"Only fair," Will echoes.

"Are you well to drive home?" Hannibal asks, since it had crossed his mind earlier.

"I can get a cab, I'll collect my car tomorrow, if it's okay."

Hannibal would offer his guest room, but Will looks skittish enough already. "Of course. Let me call you a taxi."

He follows Will to the kitchen, retrieving the phone from its spot on the counter and dialing. Will runs more water and starts carefully washing up again while Hannibal talks. "Ten minutes," he tells Will when he hangs up.

"Thank you, Doctor Lecter."

They've moved away from "Hannibal" entirely. Hannibal feels the lack of intimacy. Perhaps he's meant to. He feels unmoored, too, like he's stumbled in the dark. He watches Will's shoulders, his narrow waist. His hands are the kind of careful that means he's far away. Hannibal senses he does not want to be pulled back to reality.

He allows him the silence for the space of two dishes, two glasses, two spoons. Then, he touches his elbow. "Shall I get your coat?

"Yes," Will says after a moment, blinking. "Thank you."

Hannibal leaves him to gather himself while he collects the jacket, pausing in the hall. A humid sort of night has fallen while they ate and talked. The stars are winking through the shadows of the trees. Hannibal bites the seams of his lips, alone for the moment, and takes a breath to steady himself. He's not used to people who defy his expectations.

When he's recovered, he heads back to the kitchen, where Will is drying his hands on a cloth and staring at the marble countertop. "I'm afraid I've misspoken," he murmurs, when Hannibal comes close. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Hannibal hands him his coat.

"Everything."

"I won't accept an apology so broad," Hannibal tells him, “but regardless you have nothing to apologize for."

Will shrugs a bit, still visibly discomfited. "All right."

"Come with me, I'll walk you to the gate."

"It's okay, I'll find it." Another steely bite of sarcasm. Hannibal takes Will's small smile as a cue to do the same. He's fairly sure it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Very well." He follows him to the door, watching him shrug into his jacket, checking his pockets habitually.

"That may have been the best dinner I've ever had," he says, wringing his hands absently. Hannibal stalls again, minutely. It's not what he was expecting.

"You have no idea how pleased I am to hear it, Will."

Will reaches for the doorknob. "I can't be what you're expecting," he mumbles.

"No," Hannibal allows, "you are much more." He watches as a flush stains Will's cheeks; as he turns his face away.

"Thank you for dinner," he gets out, "good evening."

"Good night, Will." This time, Hannibal lets him go. He watches him down the path, head lowered, and tries to name the feeling his retreating shadow inspires. He fears it is loneliness, simplistic as that is. But whose?

His eyes drift up before he steps back inside and closes the door. Above, the sky indifferent.


	3. Chapter 3

Will wakes early the next morning, muffling a groan in his pillow. He may have drank more brandy on returning home. He may have finished a bottle. He hadn't intended to, especially not on top of what Hannibal had served him. It had just suddenly felt incredibly necessary. His mind is still whirling.

He thinks of Lecter; of dinner. He'd come away with the sinking sensation he'd momentarily thought it was something it wasn't. It couldn't be. It's not possible. Not likely, after his performance. He has an effortless talent for self- sabotage.

He thrashes a bit at the thought, rubbing his face into his pillow. Doctor Lecter's face, thinly veiled concern, swims in his vision again. Maybe he should have just been rude after all. He groans again. He needs to thank Doctor Lecter somehow. And apologize. Again.

He looks at the time and groans once more. He'd be at work. Will should be at work, too, though his absence won't be a source of concern, given the late nights he's been putting in. He sits up, grimacing, and goes to get showered. It might make him feel less like death. It might not.

When he's washed and dressed, he picks up the phone, pulling a face at the floor as he dials Doctor Lecter's number. Hannibal's number. He needs to pick up his car. He's not really expecting him to be in. Which is why he pinches the bridge of his nose when the call connects.

"Doctor Lecter, it's Will, I'm just - I'll be by for my car soon. I wanted to - thank you, for calling me a cab."

"Will." Hannibal sounds faintly surprised. "It's not a problem."

Will finds himself pleased to hear his voice. "I just wanted to let you know. That I - um." He stutters, brain grinding. When the silence lingers, Hannibal intervenes.

"Would you like to come for breakfast?"

"Hannibal," he pleads, almost aghast at his own transparency.

"Will. I sense that you would like to talk, and ironically, phones are not always the best medium for that."

Does Will want to talk? He's feeling rather more like dying. "I'm hung over," he says, apologetically, "not sure how articulate I'll be."

"You're welcome regardless."

Will hesitates, a rain check on the tip of his tongue. Something stops him. "Do you... want me to?"

"I wanted to ask you to stay last night."

Will's breath jams in his throat like a bullet halfway down a barrel. He feels for the handle of the medicine cabinet door in the bathroom, looking for aspirin. "I think I would have wanted to."

"That does not mean you would have agreed to," Hannibal points out.

"In addition to knowing other people well, I know when I shouldn't be around them."

"Will - come for breakfast now," Hannibal says quietly.

Will looks at himself in the cabinet mirror of the bathroom. His own expression is foreign to him. "All right. I won't be long."

He grabs his work bag and gets on the streetcar. He tries not to think of the plain authority in Hannibal's voice. It's difficult to ignore it, or how it made him feel. He's determined not to dignify the adolescent, shrieking question he keeps asking himself with an answer. He already knows himself; understands himself- theoretically. In practice, it seems flimsy and two-dimensional. He has no idea how he'll make it through a work day after breakfast with the doctor and his twisting conversation. He wonders if he's considering a sick day over a - a what? A crush? A fascination? A loss of balance. He needs his equilibrium back. Maybe work is the best thing for that.

First, though, breakfast. He gets off the streetcar and walks toward Hannibal's tasteful Victorian revival house, the feeling of a million crawling insects buzzing in his stomach. He should have poured himself a shot of whiskey instead of just taking aspirin. He wonders, as he makes his way up the path to knock on Hannibal's door, what the doctor would make of him asking for a liquid breakfast. He'd possibly just look at Will with that hint of clinical curiosity.

He's not wearing that one when he opens the door. Instead, he gives Will a smile. "You're quite prompt. I have some lovely mushrooms sautéing right now for a frittata."

"Sounds good." Will says, following Hannibal into the kitchen, bright with honeyed morning light. There's also coffee brewing, a single cup already sitting by the stovetop. He pours Will some and offers him its twin, the sunlight making his eyes golden and his pupils pinpricks of black.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

"Thank you for stopping by. I'm glad you called."

"Are you really?"

"Indescribably. I felt last night that I had pushed you too far."

"I don't think you had much to do with it. I can push _myself_ too far, even on a good day."

"If only it were so simple to unburden ourselves." Hannibal murmurs, turning to the stove to tend to the mushrooms.

"But it isn't." Will sips his coffee and has to hold back a noise of sheer appreciation.

"It might be easier than we thought. I'm told these things are easier with friends."

"You keep saying that," Will mutters. "I can't imagine why you want -"

"You can imagine." Hannibal interrupts, albeit gently.

"I don't know if I should."

"Who would know? You're alone in your mind, are you not?"

Sometimes Will isn't sure. Hannibal looks at him over his shoulder as he whisks eggs. He is more patient than Will feels he deserves.

"Someone might find out," he whispers.

"Who? And what?"

Will doesn't have an answer. He sips his coffee. He watches Hannibal as he pours eggs into the skillet of mushrooms and herbs and rosy, translucent pancetta.

"Do you eat like this every morning?" he asks, eventually.

"No. My rotations at the hospital can vary. But... often."

Will tries to see a version of Hannibal that does this for other people often. He can see it, but it's someone different than the Hannibal he can see in front of him now, plain as day. Like a china mask he could put on if he chose. "It suits you," he murmurs.

"I can't think what you mean, Will, but I do appreciate the compliment."

"The life, I think. The prestige."

A smile touches Hannibal's lips, faint and fleeting. He lowers the heat on the stove, getting plates out, garnishing them with fruit and fresh toasted rye. Will takes the plates to the table when Hannibal nods. He follows with the skillet, serving Will frittata before he sits down with his own.

"Prestige is an odd term to use," he comments, eventually, "it implies a sort of renowned admiration."

Will looks at him evenly. "I've never met a surgeon who didn't either have it, or want it."

"I don't want it," Hannibal murmurs, cutting delicately into his breakfast.

Will doesn't believe him. "Not from everyone," he guesses. Then he's forced to stop talking by sheer enjoyment of his food. He can feel Hannibal watching him, probably deciding how best to verbally stick him next. He'd almost rather he just use the pretty silver fork in his hand. Hannibal said he wanted him here, he reminds himself.

"I prefer authenticity," he says eventually, "from those I view as peers."

"I understand."

Now it's Hannibal's turn to look disbelieving. It's not accusatory, more dubious. Will sips his coffee and lets him formulate whatever he wants to say. He's not sure they haven't been arguing around the same thing as last night, just with different words.

"Will," Hannibal says eventually, "in the interest of whatever subject we are avoiding and not avoiding now, I want to try to make some things clear. May I do that?"

"Please."

Hannibal chews, swallows, and then sips his coffee before he goes on. "I find myself out of my depth with you, which is not a feeling I am accustomed to. I often have dinner parties, but seldom dinner with friends, and seldom with friends who are as singularly fascinating as you are. I very much like having you here, and I am not at all concerned about either of our motives. No need for either of us to be so suspicious of finding pleasure in one another's company, I think." He meets Will's eyes steadily. "Do you agree?"

Will does, but the simple earnestness in Hannibal's voice and eyes feels like blinding light. It takes him a moment to become accustomed to the brightness.

"Yes." He rubs his neck for a moment, sighing. "It's what I wanted to say, today. If I could have managed it."

He's rewarded with a warm smile. Hannibal leans toward him, almost conspiring. "You did the majority of the footwork."

Will shrugs, face feeling hot. "I needed to get my car," he points out.

"Yes," Hannibal agrees. "But you stayed."

"Well, you did promise me breakfast."

Hannibal smiles. "Just so."

"It's just... unnaturally good," Will mutters, "people shouldn't be able to do this with eggs and ham." Hannibal looks amused, but doesn't comment. Will sighs into his coffee in content. "It will be difficult to go to work after this."

"I'm inclined to agree."

Their eyes meet briefly, and Will looks away, down at the table. Too much. Hannibal telegraphs openness all too well. It feels nearly calculated, like it's something he's had to practice. Recognizing more of his own traits in him, Will feels a bolt of certainty: Hannibal's behavior is all the result of close study. It makes Will wonder, when those flashes of reality come through, what they're concealing beneath.

It's not his business, not at all. He has no idea where Hannibal came from or what he's experienced. It had seemed to be the only thing he didn't want to tell him last night. Will can force himself not to mind, but it's almost entirely against his nature. He can wait, though. He's good at that.

They finish breakfast, and Hannibal lets Will wash up again while he tidies away the leftovers. Then, he fills a stainless steel thermos with more coffee and presents it to Will once he's hung up the dish towel.

"To get you through the day," he offers, at Will's styptic silence.

Will wants to laugh, but he takes it regardless. "Thank you," he huffs, leaning his hip on the counter as he turns the flask in his hands. "I'll uh, be sure to wash it before I bring it back."

"That I can believe. Shall I walk you out?"

Will's ears turn red again. "You don't have to do that."

"No," Hannibal agrees evenly. "I want to, though."

Will sees absolutely no reason to protest. Not again. "All right." He lets Hannibal trail him outside, their shoulders bumping a couple of times as they walk.

Hannibal opens the front gate for him, pausing just inside. "Take care. I hope to see you soon."

"Thank you for breakfast," Will hovers, smiling at his hands. "Try not to fight any thugs at work today, okay?"

"If I must," Hannibal says solemnly, "I shall at least attempt to win."

"I'm sure you will." Will makes himself take those first steps back. It will be easier after that, he reasons. But the fragrance of the coffee follows him down the sidewalk and into his car, like Hannibal himself is trailing behind. He looks, and Hannibal is still watching him as he pulls away. Will raises his hand in a wave, and wonders what just happened. It's something. He knows that much.

He tries not to analyze it too much. That, again, is against his nature.

*

By the time he gets to the precinct, he's managed to put it away, more or less. Work always takes over in the end. Beverly is waiting for him when he gets to his desk. He immediately takes her plastic cafeteria coffee away and hands her Hannibal's. "Try this instead."

"I'm going to ignore the fact that this is half-gone because it smells amazing."

"You won't regret it." He sits down and picks up his message slips, flipping through them. "You don't usually come visit me, Beverly."

She makes a thoughtful face. "Why is that? Oh wait, is it because we usually don't work cases together?" She sips the gifted coffee. "Or do you mean because you're the most impatient person I've ever worked with?"

"Jesus, just spit it out," he snorts.

"We recovered a firearm at one of Chargois' apartments. Testing shows a ballistic match to Delaney's slug. We've got him, Will."

"That's great." He smiles. "Good solve, Detective."

"Of course, the positive ID's also helped."

Will shakes his head. "This way they won't have to testify."

"Exactly. Hey, where is this coffee even from?"

"A friend," Will says.

"A friend sent you out this morning with a thermos of coffee?" She raises an eyebrow.

"They invited me over for breakfast," Will says, giving her an eyebrow of his own.

"'They', very cosmopolitan, Detective Graham."

"He is thoughtful," Will repeats, with the barest emphasis.

Beverly's mouth opens, but Will thinks her surprise is more at him bending than at his casual admittance. There's nothing to admit, surely. Then she smiles. "I'm gonna leave you alone to deal with those messages, Will. But I'll see you around."

"Thanks," he snags the coffee back from her.

She smirks. "Better get that refilled."

"I'll ask him to make two next time."

"Oh," she says over her shoulder as she leaves, "next time!"

He sputters a bit, turning back to his desk to curse while he goes through his messages. There's always another case starting, or finishing, or continuing.

*

He dives back into it, and for a couple of days, lapses back into his usual routine: go to work, go home sixteen hours later, have as many drinks as hours he wants to sleep, rinse and repeat.

A few towns over, another floater is discovered half eaten by wildlife, and Will spends a full day in waders with local cops, sifting through stagnant waters in the bayou until he finds a human head and a ribcage, both stripped of flesh. He delicately holds the head up for a moment in his gloved hands, grizzled and grey in the sunlight, eyes and lips and cheeks long since eaten by fish. He’s swamped briefly by the thought of lying at the bottom of the lake, gazing up at the rippling surface world, waiting to be pulled out of the silt. Shuddering at the thought, he counts the teeth, and then signals his find.

*

At the lab, Jimmy Price turns the head over with a matching look of disgusted intrigue.

“No prints off this baby,” he says, which Will already knew, “but I might be able to get you a print of a different kind.”

“What do you mean?”

“See where the flesh of the cheeks is missing? There’s a clean cut. The edges of the flesh are too waterlogged to get a blade match, but I found deep scrapings in the gums where the meat has been incised from the skull, and they were sort of protected by the other flesh, if that makes sense. This isn’t from fish, these cheeks were cut away _before_ the head was tossed.”

“The cheeks were removed. Why?” It’s mostly rhetorical. Will thinks of cod cheeks in breadcrumbs, and horror creeps up his spine. It must show on his face, because Jimmy gives him a pinched smile.

“I’ll let you imagine what delights the Bayou Butcher has indulging in. That's what I've been calling him. Catchy, no? Now, look at these photos.”

Will does. They’re the incision marks on the gums zoomed in, unusual in their angle even with the naked eye. Will’s frown deepens.

“Cut with a curved blade.”

“Exactly. Very unusual to see that. I’d say either a shaping or gutting knife, or a linoleum cutter.”

Gutting knife. Fish again. Will’s slowly developing picture of this butcher just took on a concerning new light.

“Jimmy, this is a breakthrough,” Will says quietly, “thank you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

It’s true though, it is a breakthrough. He’s just not sure entirely what to do with it.

*

Hannibal's mug sits on his kitchen counter, clean and empty. Will is so preoccupied that he almost forgets about it, until he doesn't, and then he can't believe he nearly did. He texts Hannibal on a late night at the office when his stats won't cooperate, unsure if he'll even still be up.

_Hey, you up?_

_I am on call this evening, so yes,_ comes the reply.

 _Does on call mean at home?_ Will hesitates, then adds, _Want to grab a coffee?_ That's something people still do, right?

_Yes, I would like that. Did you have a place in mind?_

_I'm guessing a Starbucks is out of the question._ A long pause. Hannibal is either offended or he's laughing.

_I'd rather not, if it's all the same._

_your call then_

Hannibal texts back the street address of a cafe, and Will raises his eyebrows, pleased.

 _I can be there in ten minutes._ It's only a few blocks away from the hospital, which is not far from headquarters.

_I'll consider you on your way then. See you soon._

Will debates about adult men signing off texts with kisses, and amuses himself at the thought of Hannibal doing so. He thinks Hell might freeze over first. He's still tempted to try it. Then he collects himself and packs his bag to leave.

He pulls up outside the cafe a short while later, smiling when he sees Hannibal emerging from a sleek black Bentley.

"A European count," he reminds himself. He's more casually dressed than usual, Will notices, having come from home instead of the hospital. "You own a sweater," he says, by way of greeting.

Hannibal looks down at his clothes, then up at Will, who knows he looks more than typically disheveled. "It appears that I do."

"It's very nice," Will offers, smiling when Hannibal touches his elbow to guide him through the door he opens.

"Thank you, Will."

"You're - you're welcome. How are you?" He follows Hannibal to a table, looking around the café with intrigue. It's small, but clean, and a bafflingly complicated sports car of an espresso machine rests on a marble counter.

“I’m very well, thank you Will. And yourself?”

“Apart from running a little empty, I’m good.” As good as he ever is. Being here with Hannibal has him feeling uncommonly light.

"I recommend the pastries, if you are hungry," Hannibal says. As soon as he moves to the counter, an older man materializes from the back. They order, and then go to sit down. As he takes in the many mirrors on the walls, Will remembers the reason he thought to get in touch.

"I have your thermos in my car."

"I will endeavor to remember that," Hannibal says with a brief smile, “though I must admit I’m not quite functioning at optimum capacity.”

“That doesn’t sound like you. Everything all right?”

"I performed an emergency surgery late last night," Hannibal says quietly. "That is why I am on call now and not at the hospital proper."

"How did it go?"

"Successfully," he answers. "It took eight hours, though, which is... draining."

"Eight hours you'd have spent solving puzzles anyway, I imagine," Will observes idly.

"Perhaps. I do enjoy a puzzle." He gives Will what he imagines is a meaningful smile. Will smiles back before removing his glasses. He rubs his eyes, tension easing in his temples.

Their coffees come to the table in a cloud of fragrant steam. Hannibal seems unusually quiet. Perhaps it's just the time of night.

"I was thinking about what you said at breakfast," Will tells him, sipping his coffee.

"Which thing was that?"

"About motives for friendship. Not wondering about them. What if I'm still wondering about them?"

"Then I imagine you are thinking like a detective."

"Unfortunately, I don't seem to be able to stop."

"Do you wish to?"

"I don't know," Will murmurs. He sips his coffee again. It's not as good as Hannibal's. That makes him think of Beverly. "I think my coworker is interested in selling her soul for more of your coffee, by the way. She had a sip the other morning."

"I don't accept souls," Hannibal says flippantly. Will can't tell if he's hurt by what Will just said.

"A pound of flesh, perhaps," he suggests, unsure how to clarify that he hadn't meant it to sound- how it did. Apeshit.

"Depends which pound."

Will looks down at the table, where their hands sit only inches apart. He swallows a few times, and then looks at Hannibal again. "How about a heart?"

"Not quite a pound in mass," Hannibal says, sounding very much the surgeon for a moment, "though perhaps I could be convinced."

"I can occasionally be compelling," Will says.

"Always, in my experience." His tone makes Will shiver. He shifts his hand minutely, and then thinks of Xs on the ends of texts, and breakfast. Finally, he rests his fingers overtop of Hannibal's on the tabletop between them, just gently.

Hannibal goes very still. Will's heart almost stops entirely.

"Breathe," Hannibal suggests softly.

Will does, making to withdraw his hand, ears starting to burn again. Hannibal's fingers encircle his wrist before it slips from the tabletop. Will looks at him, still having to persuade himself to breathe.

"Is it my motives you still don't understand," Hannibal asks, "or is it your own?"

"Definitely yours," Will breathes, "I'd say my hand is tipped, wouldn't you?"

"For the sake of clarity..." Hannibal lifts Will's hand slowly and with no real resistance, and presses his lips against the delicate veins of his wrist for a moment. Then he places it back on the table like it's something delicate.

Will controls his breathing, just barely. He's struck with the sudden urge to laugh. Instead, he looks around, heart beating hard in his chest, and tries not to smile too wide. He looks back and catches the tail end of Hannibal's sudden desperate search for an expression, and something barbed and warm settles in his rib cage.

"Hannibal?" At the sound of his name, Hannibal smiles. Will sighs at the sight of it. "We should- uh, we should catch a movie or a show or something one night, right?"

"I would enjoy that," he murmurs.

Will smiles again. He can't help it. "Thanks. Me too."

"Perhaps a drink, when I'm not on call."

"Sure. Just let me know what would be best for you."

"I will." Hannibal drinks some of his coffee. He looks down at their hands again several times, until Will takes pity on him and offers it to him, just under the lip of the table this time. The feel of Hannibal's hand - cool and well-manicured and powerful - sliding over his, is indescribable. "An interesting development," Hannibal observes.

"Un - unexpected?" Will manages to ask.

"I was not convinced your inclinations would run to..."

"Men," Will puts in. He flushes deeply to say it. It seems crude. Even so, Hannibal nods.

"You have a way with words."

"For using as few as possible?"

"And the most abrupt."

"Saves time."

Hannibal lets out a breath of laughter. "Not always the intended outcome though, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Repartee generally requires more than monosyllabism."

"Is that what you enjoy?" Hannibal raises a brow. "Repartee," Will enunciates.

"When I can get it," Hannibal sounds long-suffering.

Will sighs. "How do you feel about sarcasm?"

"It'll do in a pinch."

"That's reassuring. See, I don't even know I'm doing it."

"Yes, you do." Hannibal squeezes his hand minutely. Will grins, and sees that he's smiling too, in his quiet way. He feels dizzy, in a way a late-night shock of caffeine can't hope to explain. He takes his hand back to warm it on his coffee, but not before giving Hannibal's the same gentle squeeze he did, a pulse of touch code that seems to make him flex his fingers afterward like they still tingle.

Will stares at his cup. Eye contact would be too much right now. He wants this, he realizes, with a delayed sort of clarity. He likes it. Likes Hannibal.

"So, how long are you on call?"

"Until three.”

Will nods, not sure what he wants to do with this information, just knowing that he wants to do _something_ with it. "What were you doing when I texted?"

"I was working on a composition."

"Harpsichord?" Will asks, fingers twitching minutely.

"Just so." Hannibal smiles at him. "It's something I've been working on a long time. I am almost never satisfied with it."

"I can see that, with you. Perfectionism, that is."

"That's true," Hannibal agrees, "but there's an element of change with composition. You can feel the need for a different sound on any given day."

"So why not write a different piece?"

"Sometimes they have the same energy." Hannibal shrugs. "I do usually."

"Sometimes you just want to finish what you've started?"

"Sometimes I have to."

"I can understand that."

"Is there anything you don't understand?"

Will laughs. "A lot."

"I'm not sure I believe it."

"There's a lot I haven't tried to." Hannibal tilts his head at that. Will likes that, too, he realizes. He feels seen.

"Understanding people can make it hard to disentangle ourselves from them," he says eventually, softly. "Seeing too much: irreversibly damaging."

"Is that psychiatry degree re-emerging, Doctor?"

Hannibal smiles. "Should I apologize again?"

"No, of course not. You're right, too. It's what makes my work so difficult; I tend to walk a thin line."

"It probably makes you uncomfortably good at it, too."

"Uncomfortable for everyone, I'm sure."

"Sounds like you speak from experience."

Will laughs. "Yes."

Hannibal touches his wrist again, just two fingers, like a blessing. "I am not uncomfortable."

Will bites his lip, letting his hand tilt again, watching Hannibal's two fingers draw up to his palm. "No?"

"Not in the least."

"Good... good. I don't want that."

"I take it there are other things you want," Hannibal murmurs.

Will chuffs a bit, looking away for a moment. "Very astute, Doctor." Hannibal hums. When he says nothing, Will goes on. "What do you want?"

"Understanding," Hannibal says after a moment's pause.

"You don't often find it," Will guesses.

"I've only looked a few times."

That seems like a bridge into a much more serious conversation. Will worries at his lip with his teeth. "Is understanding all that you want, Doctor?"

"No," Hannibal murmurs. "I think not." Will smiles at that, too. "Generous with those, tonight," Hannibal says, a touch of teasing in his politeness.

"It's been known to happen."

"Of course, I won't let it go to my head." His smirk says otherwise.

Will pokes at his pastry. "Thank you for coming out with me."

"You don't have to thank me for that. I was pleased to hear from you."

"I wasn't sure you were the texting sort."

"Well naturally I prefer a quill and parchment."

Will scoffs. "Now you're just mocking me."

"You started it."

It sounds so ridiculous in Hannibal's plummy accent. Will bursts into surprised laughter, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Lecter."

"Are you really?" His voice drops a measure. Will bites his lip when he looks at him.

"Of course."

Hannibal raises one pale brow. It elicits a shiver so sharp in Will that he swears Hannibal must hear his bones chatter. He feels ridiculously exposed.

Hannibal reaches out, visibly hesitant, and cups Will's hand in his own two. "Very pretty."

Will can feel the tremor of his pulse in his neck. A flush follows, down his neck to his chest. If the shiver was exposure, this is dissection, while he looks into Hannibal's wine-dark eyes. He sees desire there, more savage than anything he expected. Hannibal looks at him with a plain and fierce hunger. The veil of polite interest he usually wears is gone. Will can do nothing but stare.

"Do you see me?" Hannibal murmurs, and Will nods. "Do you understand?"

Will licks his lips. He's abruptly, entirely turned on. "I understand. Are you sure," he asks faintly, "that you're on call until three?"

Hannibal's eyes smile again. "Yes. But not every night." He checks his watch. "And three is not that far away."

It's far enough. Will lets out the breath he’d been holding, a touch of the shiver coming out with it. Hannibal touches his shoulder.

"Besides, I think you will see the benefit of some time to process all of this. You seem somewhat overwrought."

"Only always."

Hannibal nods. He keeps his hand in Will's as they go back to their coffee. "Tell me about other times you've been overwrought."

"That seems less than interesting."

"Not to me."

"I think you'll need to be more specific," Will gulps. Hannibal's attention feels like the heat of a fire against his skin.

"You said, when we met, that catching your last killer hadn't been your proudest moment."

Going from the stark desire in Hannibal's face to coolly discussing murder makes his head spin. "Uh-huh," he manages.

"You weren't talking about the act- that made you proud. It was something else."

"I'm often asked to recreate a crime scene in my mind," Will murmurs. "Sometimes - it's like you said - I see too much."

"What happened?" Hannibal asks. No clever juxtaposition, no dancing around- just that want in his eyes again, a different kind of keenness.

"I felt as if I'd killed them. The thought - persisted, for quite some time."

Hannibal nods in understanding. His thumb skims very gently against Will's knuckles. "That was recent, then."

"Last year. I had – a break. I couldn’t get it out of my head."

"You were hospitalized?"

Will nods, looking at the table. He can't look at Hannibal now, too afraid of what he'll see. He almost startles when Hannibal brings his lips to the back of Will's hand, sleek head bowed toward him as if in prayer. They linger for a moment. Will feels the intense desire to touch his crown. He resists.

"You see now," Hannibal murmurs, "why I too find it hard to maintain casual friendships."

"There are no easy questions?"

"Well, a few."

"No easy answers, then, and you want to know them all."

"Yes, I'm afraid I do."

Will lets himself linger on the image of Hannibal bent over his lap again for several seconds as a balm to his discomfort. "You won't like a lot of them."

"I will be the judge of that, Will."

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

Hannibal just nods, expression gone a bit remote. That's terrifying, to slip in and out of his passion without warning. Will wants to see that dark heat again. "Have you ever been overwrought?"

"Not for a very long time," Hannibal says quietly. He looks uncertain for a split second before his face smooths out again. Will sees from the smoothness that the only example he brings to mind is a terrible one. Despite Hannibal's delicate insistence on Will's own raw truth, he won't do the same. He doesn't want get lost inside it, and that’s what will happen if he pushes. Regardless, he knows he'll find out eventually. He always does, whether he wants to or not.

"Let's go for dinner soon," he murmurs, instead of pursuing the subject. "Do you do that?" he asks after a moment. "Go out."

"Of course."

"Will you insist on choosing, because that actually makes things easier on me..."

Hannibal starts to snicker a bit. "If you like."

Will blushes hard. He likes to see him laughing, even so. "I just know I'm not classy enough for you. I do own a suit, I promise."

"And I would dearly love to see you in it," Hannibal promises, "but Will, I can assure you I won't ever consider you less than me."

It makes him more relieved than he can quite express. "And here I thought you were smart," he says, for lack of what else to say.

"The sarcasm you mentioned?" Hannibal replies coolly. Will gives him a smiling shrug. "Then I will pick a place."

"Thank you."

"When shall I make the reservation?"

"I'm off Friday because I'm covering the weekend."

"Friday, then."

It seems like weeks away. Will forces himself to nod, then looks at his watch with a sigh. "I should get back to work."

Hannibal makes to stand up with him. Their shoulders bump as they rise, and Will apologizes under his breath.

Hannibal's hand settles on his shoulder. Will pays for the coffee, and they head out onto the street, the dark swallowing up their clasped hands. They pause by Will's Jeep.

"Good night, Hannibal," he murmurs, "thank you for joining me."

"Until next time," Hannibal replies, licking his lips.

Will watches his tongue for a split second. He pauses, heart giving a painful pound. He knows what he wants, but he feels pinned in place by the power of Hannibal's presence. Aware that the moment has stretched too long, he settles for squeezing his hand before he lets go. "Oh- I have your cup."

Hannibal’s smile is appreciative as Will opens the car to grab it, and when he hands it over they’re close again. Will stutters a bit.

"Thank you, Will,” Hannibal says softly. “I’ll speak to you shortly. Please, look after yourself."

Not overly likely, but he nods his head anyway. "I'll see you Friday."

"I will call you about the arrangements." Hannibal pauses, hand on the car door when Will is finally in his seat. He lingers. Will would find the whole thing awful if he wasn't so strung up on the novelty of it. He freezes, pinned in place. Finally, Hannibal leans in, pressing a single, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, before withdrawing entirely. He closes the car door for Will, making a decision Will isn't sure he'd have been able to.

He watches him walk to his car with a pleasant little wave, and holds his breath until he's inside it. Then, he lets it out in a harsh, fast burst. " _Fuck_ ," he says. He has to wait a few minutes, until he's sure Hannibal's gone and his breathing is steady again. His heart still pangs every time his thoughts stray back to Hannibal's hands on his. It's been ages since he's had a physical reaction to anyone like that. He can't remember the last time, even. Mentally, he turns the moment over again and again as he drives back to the station. Now, he has to keep a lid on it until Friday.

***

Hannibal spends several hours over the next few days making a list of restaurants and methodically crossing entries back off of it. It's not that any of them are subpar- quite the opposite- but they're still not right. Too dark, or too bright, or too jarringly not-Will. Several have private dining rooms available, and he considers that. Then he thinks of how uncomfortable Will seems at displays of wealth, and that idea off the list as well.

The list shrinks until he finally makes his choice - a small Japanese restaurant with a charming leafy courtyard. Simple but expertly prepared food, no forks for Will to nervously fidget with. And fresh fish - Will should surely appreciate that.

That thought brings to mind the image of Will at his table, eyes closing as he savored his first bite of liver. It's burned bright into the dark of Hannibal's mind. He replays it often, whenever his emotions threaten to overwhelm the tight rein he keeps on them.

" _Have you ever been overwrought?_ " he'd asked. Hannibal was overwrought there and then. He'd hidden it ruthlessly, but Will seems to call it forth. It's disconcerting.

As ever, though, Hannibal sees opportunity in the preoccupation. He circles the notation on his paper and picks up the phone, closing his eyes as it rings. He makes a reservation, then looks at his phone again, thinking. He slowly dials Will's number next. Will answers almost immediately.

"Graham, Homicide." It's evening, but he sounds a little blurry. Hannibal realizes he'd hoped to find Will at home.

"Hello, Will. I hope I'm not disturbing you at work."

"No, I'm off for tonight."

Answering his phone on autopilot, then. "I wanted to call you about Friday."

"Oh." He audibly perks up. "I'm sorry, Hannibal, working on a report, takes me a minute to uh- anyway, what's up?"

"Working from home?" Hannibal asks. From the sound of Will's voice, he's been drinking, so he'd be surprised.

"It's a paper for a forensics journal, that's all."

The ambition in Will is subtle, but it's still there beneath the surface. Hannibal allows himself a moment to muse on it. "What is it on?"

"It's a monograph on time of death by insect activity."

"New insights on the phenomena?"

"Climate variants in the bayou," Will says absently.

"Sounds charming," Hannibal jokes, pleased at Will's little huff of laughter.

"Morbid, but so is my career. You called about dinner?"

"I've made reservations for eight on Friday. Would that work for you?"

"Yes, that sounds great. Where are we going, or is it a surprise?"

"It's not a surprise. It's a Japanese place establishment, not far from here. Any objections?"

"No, none. Are we meeting there?"

"I thought I could collect you."

There's a pause, then Will says. "Yeah, I - can be ready by seven-thirty if you want to. I'm in the Seventh Ward." He lists his address and Hannibal jots it carefully down in his appointment book.

"I look forward to it."

"Me too." Hannibal rearranges himself a bit. Will makes a noise of interest. "It's nice to hear from you. Are you okay?"

"I'm well. I haven't had many more opportunities for company this week."

"Sounds disappointing."

"I only cared for one person's company, to be honest."

Will goes quiet for a moment. "I- you mean me?"

"Yes, Will, I mean you."

He's quiet, but Hannibal gets the sense he's touched. "I - Well, same."

"Good." Hannibal smiles. "I'm pleased to hear that." He's more than pleased. His possessiveness is no secret to keep from himself.

"Friday seems a long way away," Will says quietly.

Hannibal hums. "Does it?"

"It doesn't to you?"

"I will surely be counting the hours."

"How many we at so far?"

The South curls through his words, accent stronger, Hannibal thinks, due to whatever he's drinking. "Seventy, I believe."

"And counting."

Hannibal likes it. He likes how loose and easy he sounds now, like he would answer any question Hannibal threw him. He's tempted. Not being able to see his face while he does it is a drawback.

"Save any lives today?" Will asks the considering silence.

"A couple, for the time being. And you?"

"Arguably ended one. A warrant for manslaughter- he ran, but I got him." He makes a mild noise. "He got me too actually, I've got a bit of a, uh, bruise. I hope that's okay at dinner." When Hannibal doesn't respond immediately, he adds, "the EMT looked at it for me on the scene."

"I should think so." He keeps his voice even. Will will undoubtedly respond negatively to anger, even directed at someone else.

"It's not a big deal, it's part of the job. My nose isn't broken, at least."

"I am glad." He's aware his fingers are clenched.

"Just went to pick him up for an interview and he made a break for it," Will supplies, "he's in custody now."

"Good."

"And whiskey works as well as aspirin."

"I'm often told it's more effective," Hannibal muses. "What do you drink, Will? I feel l ought to make sure to have your choice on hand." Will hesitates. Hannibal intervenes. "I know I don't have to. I want to. Tell me."

"Maker's Mark, usually. Sometimes anything will do."

"Very well." Hannibal smiles.

He hears the clink of ice cubes on the other end of the line. "While we’re on the subject," Will laughs, a touch of sheepishness in his voice.

Hannibal smiles a bit. "Do you drink a lot, Will?"

"Is that judgment, Hannibal?"

"Just curiosity. I'm quite the oenophile myself."

Will barks a laugh. "I just drink a lot."

He could tread carefully, but he's already got him on edge. He opts for empathy instead. "Is it to forget, or to sleep?"

"Those categories overlap."

"You have bad dreams."

"Sometimes."

Hannibal rolls his shoulders, considering.

Will continues, seeming contrite at his own abruptness. "We’ve discussed this before. I tried therapy, didn't really work for me. Alcohol doesn't, uh, patronize me."

"This is true," Hannibal murmurs. Will is shaping up to be astonishingly stubborn - Hannibal is fascinated by his decisions. "We’ve indeed already established that you know yourself well."

"Better than a stranger with a piece of paper, yes."

Arrogant, too. "Difficult to know when you yourself are without a piece of paper, I imagine."

Will laughs, a little nastily. "Do we want to go into this together, Doctor?"

"I'll hold your hand if you're scared," Hannibal murmurs, amused.

"Will you?"

"If you want me to."

Will goes quiet. "At the very least."

Warmth pierces Hannibal in a place he can't name. He looks down at his shoes on the dark wood floor. "Of course, Will."

Will doesn't reply right away. Hannibal can hear him taking a sip of his drink. He wishes he could smell him. See him. Feel him. He's not used to his body making demands of him. He savors it.

"I don't think I've ever met anyone like you in my life," Will says then, voice hesitant even with a few drinks behind it.

"I do feel that I am unique," Hannibal murmurs. "But you are as well."

"Very modest, too," Will chuckles.

"Does that offend you?"

"It doesn't surprise me."

"I doubt anything does."

Another soft sigh. "You have."

"Then my immodesty feels deserved."

"Hannibal," Will starts. "I wish you were here."

He looks down at the address on the counter. His breath comes out more unsteadily than he'd like. "Would you like me to be?"

Will's own breath is hardly slow or steady. "I... probably shouldn't have said that." Not a no. It's not a yes, either. "If I let you come, I probably won't let you leave," he adds, belatedly.

Hannibal chooses to ignore the cruder double entendre in favor of its face value. Either way, it's a declaration. "Would you like me to insist on choosing again, Will?"

"I asked you to choose, before."

"And I will now if that's what you want."

Will's exhale sounds ragged. "I do want."

"I will see you in half an hour," Hannibal tells him firmly.

Will breathes out hard again, and Hannibal hears him take another sip of his drink. "Okay."

"'Til then, Will."

He hangs up.

*

He's at Will's house inside of twenty minutes rather than thirty, the inky sky lit with a gibbous moon, wreathes of glowing clouds loitering overhead. Hannibal lingers in his car for a second before he gets out and goes to knock on the screen door. It takes Will a moment to answer. When he does, Hannibal has to stare at his face for a few moments, just to take measure of the bruising, across the bridge of Will's nose, the inner corners of his eyes. It's surprisingly fetching on him, regardless.

"Come in," Will murmurs. He steps back to let Hannibal over the threshold. He casts his gaze around the cottage-style house, dimly lit by a few warm lamps and Will’s laptop open on the coffee table, before his eyes slide swiftly back to Will. He look relaxed, for once, a pale grey t-shirt stretched over his chest and shoulders. "I'd give you the tour, but this is most of it right here."

"It's charming.” Hannibal takes in the slouching bookshelves and threadbare furniture, all clean but well-used. “A lovely example of Creole architecture."

"It's messy. I wasn't really expecting -"

"Will. Please."

His excuses subside, his light eyes flashing from under a tangle of curls. He steps closer to Hannibal now, wringing his hands faintly. "Can I get you a drink?"

Hannibal follows his every expression almost compulsively. "May I look at your face?"

"Before or after the drink?"

"Before."

He stands still and closes his eyes in allowance. Hannibal touches the bridge of his nose gently with his thumbs, feeling for swelling. His skin is warm to the touch. His lashes flutter with a slight flinch.

"You are correct," Hannibal murmurs. "Your nose is not broken. Small favors."

Will opens his eyes, and smiles. He reaches one hand out to snag the hem of Hannibal's waistcoat, hooking a finger inside. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Think nothing of it. I care very much about your welfare."

"Do you. Why is that again?"

"You are my friend." Hannibal eyes him knowingly.

Will bows his lower lip in a thin smile, eyes dropping a little as if he's been stung. He lets his hand drop. "I'll get you that drink."

"Whiskey?"

"I have beer or cognac if you prefer. Or coffee."

"Whiskey, please. I'd like to join you."

Will glances back at him as he walks through to the narrow kitchen. He pours a tumbler out and then brings it back, no polish or pomp, just his little, uncomfortable smile as he offers the glass. Hannibal takes it, curling his other hand around Will's elbow to hold him in place. "Thank you. Shall we sit?"

"Sure." Will doesn't take his arm away and Hannibal doesn't make him, even when they're sat down. He curls his fingers around Will's forearm instead, bared by the cotton shirt, warm and dusted with fair hair.

Will looks at him for a few long beats before he turns his arm, exposing the pale inner strip like the tender belly of a snake. His fingers pinch at Hannibal's sleeve gently. "... Thanks for coming."

"I could never have declined."

He flinches a bit. "Don't do that. You won't always feel like that."

"You don't know that." Will turns his head in a short, sharp shake. Hannibal lets his hand slide down to cup Will's wrist again.

"I wouldn't lie to you. Any truth that is within my power to tell you, I will."

"Will you?"

Hannibal nods. Will takes a drink, and then pushes himself away from the back of the couch, angled toward Hannibal with a more intent focus. Hannibal meets his eyes, admiring their expression.

Will leans into him with a frown, visibly expecting a rebuttal. Their noses touch, and Will pauses.

Hannibal breathes in. Part of him wants to find Will's lack of build-up repelling. As it is, he's only warmed by his inability to deny himself in this one instance, where in all others he might. Hannibal lets himself be kissed, and savors the heat of it. He suspects the suddenness of the gesture might be borne of desperation. He's not immune to it himself, not with Will's hand finding his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his waistcoat like he's memorizing every stitch.

Hannibal allows himself to cradle Will's jaw and hold him in place, and Will's answering shiver is tangible. He reaches blindly to set down his drink and brings his cold palm to Hannibal's hair, pressing in closer. It is not unaffecting. Neither is the soft hitch in Will's breath; the warmth of his mouth. Hannibal touches his tongue to the bow of Will's parted lips and devours the soft noise he makes.

His taste is enticing, as much as his scent and warmth. Hannibal finds himself aware of his body and the way its muscles shift as he leans close. Will seems aware of it too, the hand on his chest rending his shirt a bit, torn between passion and politeness. Mindful of Will’s low threshold for such things, Hannibal gentles him and eases back to look at him.

Will doesn't meet his gaze. His breaths are quick, cheeks delicately flushed. He looks like nothing so much as a Botticelli like this, all wine-pink lips and dark curls. Shame about the black eyes. Hannibal touches his lower lip with a fingertip, and watches Will's lashes flutter.

"Look at me." Breath hitching, Will does. Uncertainty tints his gaze. "Shall we talk about this?"

"Do we have to?"

"I think we ought to. You seem unsure."

Will sighs and lets his hands drop, rubbing his own face gently. "I'm just worried this is... something I'm pushing, I guess." He picks up his drink, closing his eyes before he takes a sip.

"You cannot read me like one of your... suspects?"

"I can when you let me. You are generally opaque."

"Does that worry you?"

"Uh-" Will looks like he's surprised by the question. He shakes his head. "No, it... No. Either you want me to know or you don't. I can see why transparency can be occasionally uh, hard to give."

"And trust?"

"Even harder," Will smiles. He sips his drink, and seems to still himself. "Worrying about my motives, Doctor?"

"Just interested."

"Just ask me, then."

"Tell me what you want, Will."

He lifts his gaze to Hannibal's, voice softened by the drink. He looks like no one has ever asked him that before- or not recently. "I want... You make me feel different. I want to feel different with you."

"That's flattering, but not specific."

"Specifics are hard to pin down for me."

"You will allow me to... experiment, then?"

Will's eyes flick up again, a flush touching his cheeks. "Whatever you like, Doctor."

Hannibal allows himself to feel the danger in it, and the pleasure that gives him. He brushes his thumb against Will's cheek, knuckles loose against his jaw.

Will closes his eyes at the touch, accent getting leaner again. "I just like you. That's all I know." He's drunk. Or exhausted. Or both. But so unaccountably sweet with it.

"Before, when I called you my friend. Did that hurt you?"

"I thought you might have been setting a limit."

"So you elected to kiss me."

"In case it was to give me an out...." Will trails off. "Do I need to apologize?"

"No, Will, you don't need to apologize. I wasn't sure how comfortable you'd be with my assumption we were anything more than friends."

"I don't hold my friends' hands." He traces a finger across the backs of Hannibal's knuckles. Hannibal lets their fingers interlock, as natural as anything.

"Noted," he says, leaning into him once more. Will makes a soft noise as they kiss this time. The way he chases contact is endlessly appealing. He keeps it up even when the kiss naturally breaks, resting their cheeks together and sighing, murmuring against his mouth.

"What do you want, Hannibal?"

"To be seen."

"You keep saying that." Will tips his chin to kiss him again, and Hannibal barely suppresses a shiver when he licks over his upper lip. "I promise I will."

Hannibal opens his mouth for Will this time. It's all too easy to accept his weight against him, easing back against the arm of the couch. He touches his flank, feeling the muscle shift. Will seems to be forcing himself to be the aggressor, but it's easy to pull him out of it; to card his hand into his hair and handle him into a more malleable state. It sparks something warm in Hannibal's chest, the way Will relaxes into it gratifying and endearing at once. He cups Hannibal's jaw with one hand and sighs into the kiss.

Hannibal combs through his curls and strokes their tongues together. He's pleased at the soft moan it elicits; Will's hands tightening gratefully. The rest of Will is pliable. Hannibal kisses him until they both have to come up for air; until Will's lips are pink and plush and he looks dazed. He reaches for his whiskey again.

Accepting his shoulder under his arm, Hannibal watches him settle as he takes a sip. He offers the glass to Hannibal, and he accepts that, too. He rolls the smoky liquid over his tongue and studies Will's crown.

"You are an expert at hiding it, Will, but I think you might be drunk."

Will chuckles softly. "I might be."

Hannibal strokes his hair gently. "I take it you've had a bad day, outside your run-in with a fist."

"It just builds up."

"What builds up?"

"The things I see, the things I do. Sometimes it's just remembering."

Hannibal touches under his chin so he can tilt Will's face up to his own, kissing him again. "Is that why you didn't want to be alone tonight?"

"Is that all right?" Will looks vaguely embarrassed.

Hannibal soothes him again with the touch of his hand. "Of course. I'm pleased." In all honesty, it's heady to be needed.

Will reaches for Hannibal's glass of whiskey now, leaving him with the other. "I'm uh- I don't usually have anyone to ask, I guess."

"Not this friend who enjoys my coffee?"

Will looks up, like he's not sure who he means for a second. Not a friend then. "Oh, you mean Beverly. She's my colleague, I've only spoken to her a few times." Hannibal makes a noncommittal noise. Will smiles crookedly. "I probably wouldn't have called my coworker out to come kiss me goodnight, Doctor."

"Oh, is that what I'm doing?"

"Well, unless you're planning to stay."

"Perhaps not tonight," Hannibal says softly.

Will's jaw tenses with disappointment but he visibly fights it, apparently unconsciously. "Of course."

Hannibal's not sure if he realizes he's lying. He marvels at him for a moment longer, trying to let go of the low pulse of arousal that Will has coaxed to life in him. "I don't think it would be wise, tonight, is all. Alcohol and stress are seldom ingredients for success."

Will looks like he wants to laugh again. Hannibal smiles to encourage it into something less desperately hurt. He touches Will's cheek. Will sighs and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We will have other opportunities." Hannibal intends to make them. He stifles Will's attempt to get up. "It's all right. I'm not running out the door. I'm just... drawing the line, for tonight at least."

That seems to get through. Will closes his eyes and seems, in small part, to relax. Hannibal keeps stroking him. He finds, unexpectedly, that he's happy to do it. At the same time, he's debating regretting his line: if he were feeling reckless, the opportunity to see Will raw and uninhibited would be enough to convince him to change his mind. He suspects Will skirts the line fairly often, for all his withdrawn quietness. Now, he's resting his cheek against Hannibal's shoulder, eyes closed.

"I'm surprised you're single," he mumbles.

Hannibal smiles to himself. "I'm not."

Will jolts a bit at that. He looks momentarily mortified, eyes questioning. "You're not surprised, or you're not single?"

"Surprised," Hannibal says after a short pause.

"Oh, thank god," Will murmurs, and then: "Why?"

"I'm aware I am a difficult person," Hannibal says dryly.

Will looks at him for a moment like he wants to talk about it, but then he closes his eyes against a yawn. Hannibal can't help but smile. "The whiskey is finally doing its job," he grumbles.

Hannibal strokes his hair back again, shifting. "Let's get you to bed."

Will frowns but lets himself be helped to his feet. Hannibal makes an egregious attempt to spread his hand around Will's waist where the cotton of his shirt rucks up. Will keeps his arm around his shoulder, footing a little unsteady.

The bedroom is easy to find, the little shotgun house hallway leading straight back past kitchen and bath. It's meticulously tidy despite the general clutter, and Hannibal pauses to breathe in the overwhelming scent of Will- laundry detergent, soap, clean sweat and drink. He thinks Will would be ashamed to be recognized as such, but he finds something pure in it. If nothing else, Will is honest about who he is.

"I'm sorry it's such a mess," he murmurs.

Hannibal sighs. "Don't apologize. It’s not." He touches Will's shoulder, and watches him with an indescribable feeling of want in his stomach as he pulls away to pull off his shirt. His libido seems reluctant to come under control this evening. Will glances at him, hovering in the doorway.

"Y'know, you can still stay, even if it's just to sleep," he says softly.

"You are persistent, Detective," Hannibal tells him.

Will goes silent, staring at nothing for a second, a shadow of displeasure in the dark room. "I uh, didn't mean to be."

"No?"

He sees a flash of Will's teeth bared as he turns on the light in the small bathroom and washes his face in the sink. "It was just an offer. Forget it."

"I'm not sure I wish to."

"You're making this confusing," Will points out, starting to brush his teeth.

"Am I?" He's still watching him, he notes, observing his own desire not to go with curiosity.

"For one of us." Will rinses his mouth out and comes back into the bedroom, wobbling only a bit as he unzips his pants.

Hannibal advances a few steps and takes him by the waist. "Are you really confused, Will, or merely impatient?"

"No, I'm- this isn't a sex thing." Will rubs his face, looking caught. "I mean, it could be, but that's not... I'm not trying to persuade you to stay. I can just see what you want to, and I guess I don't understand why you... aren't."

Hannibal flexes his fingers, taking a moment to merely enjoy the give of his flesh. Will leans into it, calming at the touch. He closes his eyes slowly, cheek brushing against Hannibal's again with their closeness.

"Try to understand," Hannibal murmurs.

Will takes a breath. "You don't think you can stay and not touch," he says finally.

Hannibal closes his eyes, inclining his head. Emanating reluctance like heat, Will steps away, and shoves his jeans down as he sits on the edge of his mattress, apparently beyond shame now.

"I understand," he murmurs, shooting Hannibal a half smile. Then he bites his lip. Hannibal would admire the clear mastery of manipulation if it wasn't making his own heart race. He steps closer and lifts the sheets for Will to slide underneath even so. If it's a battle of resolve that Will wants, he will indulge him.

Lines drawn, Will turns obligingly docile now, settling down curled onto his side. He touches Hannibal's arm gently. "Thanks for coming to check on me."

"Thank you for asking."

"Well, you're the only person I could think would make things better," Will murmurs. His eyes drift shut. Hannibal watches him for a few long seconds, not sure what he's feeling. When it's clear that Will is truly asleep, he moves to turn off the light and, after a final brush of fingers through Will’s unruly hair, shut the door. He's still not sure which side of it he wants to be on, but he makes himself walk back to the kitchen; look around for a moment and soak in Will's environment.

He wants to see every corner of it, so he does, opening drawers, cupboards, the refrigerator. He's struck by the emptiness of the place. A collection of dog-eared books, several forensics texts and files piled next to the laptop on the coffee table. Like someone moved out and forgot their belongings. Even the furniture looks like it mostly came with the rental. Hannibal touches over the dusty bookshelves, fingers searching. They catch an edge, and he pulls the photo out to look, worn and faded.

It's unmistakably Will with his father. He's perhaps ten years old. They're on a boat surrounded by fishing gear. Even in the photo, neither of them are smiling. Hannibal's fingers travel over the image of Will, his heart full of knowing then, too. He looks an anxious child. Hannibal imagines him, lonesome and talking to imaginary friends, growing into an isolated young man. The thought is unexpectedly painful. He’s crippled for a moment by the desire to put the photo in his pocket; to keep it there with the linoleum knife. Instead, he tucks it back where he found it, but it stays in his memory.

Curiosity satisfied for now, Hannibal grabs a pad from the fridge and writes Will a note for the morning. From the state of him, he will undoubtedly have questions- or concerns- about the night's transgressions. It's an attempt to be kind that he might not ordinarily make. He sticks it to the coffee machine, takes one last look around, and then leaves. He forces himself to keep his step even. Even so, part of him stays with Will, still and quiet in the dark. He's aware the rest of him wants to stay as well, but Hannibal can occasionally be ruthless with himself.

He drives home in the listless dark, and when he's in the quiet of his study he takes out his paper and charcoals and draws Will as he sees him every time he closes his eyes. He loses hours to the drawing, but it grounds him in the moment and in his own body. By the time he's finished, the sky is getting pale on the horizon. He takes himself to bed, head still full. Friday seems impossibly distant.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal sleeps, and when he wakes, it's to his phone ringing. He sighs - he's not at his best before breakfast. It's a call from the hospital, and he leaves the house inside of forty minutes, tapping his fingers on his steering wheel as he waits in early morning traffic. Coffee steams at his elbow. It's gone by the time he gets there, and he's plunged into surgery prep and a stream of minor emergencies henceforth. It's late afternoon by the time he looks at his phone, and he's only momentarily surprised to find a text waiting for him. Then, he's pleased.

_Can I call when you have a minute?_ It's from Will.

_I've just now reached my office._

It's a few moments, and the phone rings in his hand. "Will," he greets, letting his voice take the shape of fondness.

"Hannibal. I - thanks for the note."

"You're quite welcome. How are you feeling today?"

"Slightly hung over. Slightly embarrassed."

"Don't be," Hannibal murmurs, "you were perfectly lovely."

"I think you mean I was perfectly pathetic."

Hannibal sits down at his desk, and sighs. "I'm aware I gave you the distinct impression my motives for coming to you last night ran to the nefarious. It was nothing you did that changed my mind, in fact it was a nearly impossible task to leave you."

"Nefarious is an interesting word choice, Hannibal."

Hannibal bites his lip. "It's unfortunately the one I am using, nonetheless."

"Interesting..." Will hums. "How has your day been, anyway? Busy?"

An unexpected diversion. Hannibal has no doubt he'll come back to it. He has a way of circling topics.

"Yes, quite. I was called in for an emergency surgery this morning."

"What kind?"

"A triple bypass."

Will hums. "Mending hearts, I see."

"Is there one I should be focusing on in particular, Will?" That answer should be illuminating.

"Are you trying to infer you broke my heart by turning me down last night?" He can practically see Will's contemplative acid; an arched brow, clear speech.

"Not at all." He smiles, amused by the defensiveness.

"Good," Will says curtly.

"Interesting that you describe it as such, though."

"Well, the metaphor is appealing."

Hannibal doesn't mind dealing in metaphors for a short time longer.

"In any case," Will continues, more gently now, "I don't think I was any more disappointed than you were."

"Perhaps not."

Will's voice goes stiff again. "I'm not particularly enjoying your attempts at indifference, Doctor." It seems he's done with metaphors. Hannibal closes his eyes. He dislikes the telephone.

"I promise you, of all the feelings you inspire in me, Will, indifference is not among them." He allows his voice to go tight. Will just breathes for a moment.

"You sound like you're surprised."

"I confess I am, slightly."

Will huffs a bit, maybe amused, maybe just breathless. "Last night. What was the real reason you didn't want to stay? It doesn't- it's not a problem, I'm just... a little confused."

"Will," Hannibal breathes. "You were exhausted, and fairly drunk."

"So it was about my ability to make sensible decisions?"

"It was about our ability to be present in the moment, together," Hannibal says, anticipating Will's next accusation of psychoanalysis.

"You... thought I wanted to use you to disassociate from my bad day?"

"I don't believe that's what I said."

"You seldom say what you mean."

"Seldom may be an exaggeration." Will is defensive, he tries to remember. "I want you to remember," he murmurs tightly, "every touch and breath we both take, because I know I will. I want to spend hours on you. This is what I mean."

Will's answering breath hinges on the silence after his words. His swallow is audible, voice faintly atremble when he finally speaks. "That's a better reason than the one I was expecting."

"Most people would say a selfish one," Hannibal says evenly.

"I don't think it's selfish." Will stutters a bit in the way he often does before he admits something he considers shameful. "It's probably the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."

Hannibal touches a pen sitting on his desk blotter, pressing fingers against the cold metal for a moment while he gauges an answer. "Where are you?" he asks, voice taking on an unexpected hoarseness. He wants to visualize him.

"In my office," Will replies quietly. He adds, in a huff of laughter that's edged with uncertainty, "Do you wanna know what I'm wearing, too?"

"If you'd like to tell me."

"Oh, god. It was a joke." He hesitates. Hannibal waits. "I think."

"Regardless, I can picture your wardrobe, but I've never been to your office."

"Well, you're welcome to visit it. Not much to tell. It's small and, uh, plain. Nothing like yours."

Hannibal hums. "And your clothes?" he says, just to hear Will's little stutter again.

"Also plain," Will says tartly.

"No cloth could do you justice."

"N-now we're in the realm of fantasy," Will protests.

"On the contrary, I have a very good visual memory."

"So do I," Will replies.

"And yet I did not undress in front of you last night."

"No," he sounds rather disgruntled.

Hannibal smiles at the thought of his expression. "You're a charming drunk."

Will sighs. "At least there's that."

"It was nice to see you relaxed, don't worry."

A small, quiet laugh. "About as relaxed as I get."

"I know," Hannibal says.

Will sighs. "Anyway- thank you for last night. I'm sorry I was... a little difficult."

"I am coming to believe that I may enjoy difficult from you."

"That'll be a first for us both then."

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs. He twitches the scalpel on his desk; twitches it back again.

"I- I'm looking forward to tomorrow," Will says softly. He sounds suddenly, entirely sincere. Another trickle of warmth slips from Hannibal's chest into the pit of his stomach.

"As am I," he assures him. He had no idea there was anyone like Will in this city to meet. He looks at the time, and restrains his sigh. "I must apologize, Will, but I have another slot to get to. Until tomorrow."

"Oh - of course, I - thanks for talking to me. See you tomorrow."

Hannibal bids him goodbye, and then sighs heavily at the wall. He does have a consult scheduled, it was true. He checks his reflection in the mirror of his closet, adjusts his lapels, and heads out.

*

Hannibal gives himself a few extra hours Friday afternoon, to make sure his pantry is stocked with ingredients to tempt Will's appetite - just in case - and to shower and dress and groom himself to his own exacting standards. He's got an unfamiliar buzz under his skin, not nerves but something of the same genus. Pleasurable anticipation he's familiar with. This is more than that, and he somewhat relishes the novelty.

He leaves the house with enough time to spare that he's early, and he sits for a long moment before he decides to go to the door. He would hate to inconvenience Will, but he's happy to wait. Inside, where they could share the same space.

He hears shuffling for a few moments after he's knocked, and then Will answers, looking unsurprised by his prematurity. "Hannibal- hi." He aims a little smile somewhere around Hannibal's chin.

"Hello, Will. May I come in?"

"Uh- of course." He steps back. Hannibal takes stock of him, from dark blue dress pants to pressed white shirt, and barely suppresses the fierce bolt of possessiveness the blatant effort inspires. Will is inspecting him in turn, and he reaches out and touches gently at Hannibal's chest. "Are ties required?"

"No," Hannibal admits. He lets the tone be uncertain enough that Will flashes an incisor at him in a crooked grin.

"But you'd like me to wear one." He turns back to his bedroom before Hannibal can reply, and Hannibal watches him walk away, admiring his straight back and trim waist. He returns with a tie and suit jacket, the former looped around his neck, his hands working it a bit- almost anxious. "Good day?"

"Yes, thank you." Hannibal watches with interest as Will sets his jacket aside and starts tying his tie. He doesn't miss the way Will glances up, gauging his attention. Seeing he has it, he smiles, looking back down at his hands.

It becomes a performance, and Hannibal is rapt. He pulls the knot slowly up, and Hannibal feels a creeping, powerful thrill at the knowledge it's for him. Will lifts his chin at the end, settling the collar, exposing just a flash of creamy skin. Too late, Hannibal fails to disguise the slow swipe of his tongue across his lower lip. He's already told Will he wishes to be seen; but perhaps not to that extent. Not yet, anyway.

Shrugging his jacket on, Will brushes himself down. "Will I do?"

"Yes, I believe so." Hannibal reaches out to adjust a lapel slightly, letting the backs of his knuckles graze down Will's chest. Will looks momentarily like he wants to take his hands, but he doesn't, just watches Hannibal carefully and then ducks his head with a smile.

"Shall we go?"

"Please. Come with me."

Will follows him out to the car, giving it a nervous once over that Hannibal pretends not to notice. He's pleased to have Will by his side. He's still riding the novelty of it by the time they're seated at the restaurant. The courtyard is overhung with lanterns and fragrant with jasmine. Will nervously straightens his tie behind his menu as they settle. Hannibal takes a moment to breathe in, fix the sights and smells.

A waiter comes to inquire about drinks. Hannibal looks at Will, who squares his shoulders a bit. "Uh- just a carbonated water would be great, thanks."

Hannibal finds himself a bit surprised. "Make it a bottle," he adds, “please.”

Will smiles a bit at his menu again.

"Perhaps a glass with our entree," Hannibal says quietly.

Will shrugs one shoulder up gently. "Perhaps. What do you recommend to eat?"

"They do ankimo here - it's similar to foie gras. I believe if you enjoyed dinner the other evening, you might like it."

"Sounds good," Will says, with a great deal of enthusiasm for someone whose eating habits could be described as 'largely nonexistent'.

"Sushi to start?" Hannibal asks. "Are you hungry?"

"Uh, I can eat. I just have no idea what I'm looking at." He colors slightly with the admission, glancing up from under his lashes. "Can we call this your choice again?"

"I would be happy to order for you," Hannibal inclines his head. Will gives him another of his inexorably sad, grateful smiles, and puts his menu down. The waiter returns to pour their drinks, and Hannibal orders the meal, as promised. Will watches him with absorption when he does it in Japanese.

When the server departs, he fixes Hannibal with an almost suspicious look. "You... had Japanese family..." he surmises, with a great effort at nonchalance.

"I can't imagine how you know that," Hannibal murmurs.

"You have several Japanese paintings in your study," Will points out, "and a tea set in the kitchen. They're not reproductions, you're too much of a purist for that, and orientalism doesn't fit into your overall..." he gestures. "Aesthetic. Ergo: they're heirlooms. The rest is guesswork."

Hannibal smiles into his glass of seltzer. "Very impressive," he relents. Internally, he shines at the thought of Will's intense study of him.

Will's cheeks flush a bit. "Well?"

"My Uncle Robertus' wife," Hannibal replies. "They were my guardians after my parents passed away."

Will tilts his head, and his expression is unreadable even to Hannibal. "She taught you?"

"She had a maid who was a similar age to me. They both educated me in a great many things."

"Like what?"

"Everything. The way I touched the world. Art, literature. My aunt was the first person to inspire me to become a surgeon."

"Past tense? Are they both -"

"I'm afraid so."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I've been extremely fortunate in many other areas of my life."

"I can see that." Will smiles at him.

Hannibal wets his lips, his own smile effusive. "Like now, for example." It's purely to get a blush. And he does.

"You're... something else, Hannibal," he murmurs.

"I will take that as a compliment."

"Please do." Will stalls as their first course arrives, taking a moment just to focus on his food. Hannibal does as well. It's all too easy to let Will suffuse through his every thought. Collecting himself is essential. And the food here does deserve his attention.

They're quiet for the first minutes. Eventually, Will takes a sip of his drink and sighs softly. "Being with you has a dream-like quality to it, I sometimes worry I'm imagining it all."

"Is this a common problem for you?"

Will flinches a bit, giving him a questioning once over. "What makes you say that?"

"Curiosity."

Will quirks his eyebrows as he raises his chopsticks to his mouth. He chews and then swallows. "It would be putting it very mildly to say I have an 'overactive imagination'."

"The less mild way of putting it being -"

"I have had trouble differentiating reality from my dreams before," Will clarifies. Then, he frowns. "You could do with brushing up on your dinner topics, Doctor."

"Occupational hazard," Hannibal murmurs. "My apologies. Free question on your account as repayment."

"Free question, huh?" Hannibal shrugs elegantly. Will considers, frowning at his own hands. "When was your last relationship?"

Sly, this one. Hannibal admires it immensely. "I haven't been in one since a while before I moved here. The majority of them have been short lived."

"How long is a while? You haven't been here too long..."

"You've used up your question, it's my turn."

"Oh, is that how it is?"

"Quid pro quo, Will."

Will bites back a smile again. "Go on."

"When was your last relationship?"

"College," Will says automatically. Hannibal hadn't been expecting such a large gap. He tilts his head. "Three dates or less doesn't count, does it?"

"I suppose not. That's a long time."

"I don't often meet people I'm... attracted to," Will says, flushing slightly.

"Physically, or... chemically?"

"Yes," Will says bluntly.

"In that case, I consider myself honored."

He can see Will itching to deny it, but Hannibal knows the markers of desire. He ducks his head instead with a tight smile. "I don't know how long you'll think that."

"Neither do I. But I look forward to finding out."

Will hums a bit. "This is good sushi."

"It is," Hannibal agrees. He watches him with content. Eventually Will pipes up.

"Is it my turn for a question now?"

"Yes."

"Are your proclivities exclusive to uh, men?" He raises his eyebrows.

"I don't care to limit myself in anything," Hannibal replies.

Will nods. "Sensible."

"I find it so."

Will hums absently. He mirrors Hannibal's inquisition perfectly, shoulders straight. Hannibal realizes he's probably waiting for his own question. Hannibal considers what he wishes to know.

"Are you abstaining from drink for my sake?" he asks eventually.

"I don't know if I can handle another instance of rejection," Will says tartly.

Hannibal flashes him a smile in reward. "I do not mean for you to deny yourself pleasure either."

"I take pleasure where I can; sometimes I even find it in self-denial."

"Do you?" Hannibal says evenly, tamping down a swell of heat.

"Is that another question?"

"It's an extension of the first."

"I think you'd like to pretend it is."

"Very well. I'll wait my turn." He has to wait a while longer, as the waiter comes with their entrees. Will is thoughtfully quiet until Hannibal has reassured the server everything is perfect and they're alone again.

"What do you find pleasure in, Hannibal?" Will asks as Hannibal picks up his chopsticks.

He mulls on the many facets of the question as he takes his first bite, debating which will be the one that makes Will open up, like the combination on a lock. He's sure he can find it. "I find it in everything, and the curiosity of everything. Though 'everything' pertains to only select subjects on any given day."

Will takes a bite of his entree, and Hannibal watches his lashes shade his eyes for a moment. "So," he murmurs. "It sounds like what you're taking pleasure in is yourself."

"Intellectual masturbation?" Hannibal says politely, to watch Will swallow abruptly.

"That is one way of putting it."

"I certainly take pleasure in more than my own musings," Hannibal continues, "we are all stimulated by individual insights and findings."

"Of course." Will's eyes flick up to meet his for another long second.

As delicious as the food is, Hannibal finds himself all too willingly ignoring it in favor of just this. "My turn?" he asks softly. Will shifts in his chair, their toes gently colliding. He nods. "Tell me what you take pleasure in, when you don't deny yourself."

"Fixing things," Will muses.

It's a more obvious psychological fixation than Hannibal cares to analyze. "Something we have in common."

Will murmurs agreement, taking another few bites of his dinner in silence. Either he's still thinking of a question, or he's tired of the ploy. Dates are for getting to know one another, or so Hannibal has heard, but for the two of them knowledge is sharper, and it feels more like dismantling, of a sort. He's briefly entertained by the image of taking Will apart like an anatomy mannequin in a classroom, intrigued by the wet, nesting-doll neatness of his insides. He wonders if they're different to everyone else's.

"Do you have any more of those meringues at your place?" Will asks, with an endearing lack of preamble.

Hannibal stifles a smile. "Is that your next question?"

"It can be. The permission to ask is... a novelty. Usually my interviewees are much less forthcoming- though admittedly not as challenging in plenty of other areas."

"How flattering," Hannibal says dryly. "I'm glad I've distinguished myself from your suspects."

"I know you're pretending to be offended, but even so, I promise you've distinguished yourself from everyone I know."

Hannibal allows a smile to touch his lips. "Good."

Will scrubs his hair with his hand then- his first break from his visible efforts not to be himself around Hannibal. "God, I'm bad at this," he says, mostly to his plate.

"On the contrary."

"Oh, you like insulting comparisons and bad compliments?"

"I like you, Will."

That seems to stump him, for a moment; the veil of internal searching coming over his eyes before he comes back to himself, visibly reaching for his dismantled façade. "You don't even know me."

Low-hanging fruit, that - Will must be feeling rattled. "I shall make a point to remedy that." He takes a sip of his water. "In fact, I was nearly certain we were doing that now."

"With the twenty questions, yeah." He sets his chopsticks down, apparently overfaced- be it physically or psychologically. Hannibal gives him a moment to collect himself, but he thinks he can be forgiven if he watches the process. He looks so much like a triptych angel, face bowed in devoted shame. Hannibal feels the edges of his own desire carefully, letting it percolate in his core.

"Would you like to leave, Will?" he asks, as gently as he can.

"Together?" Will asks the table.

It's an effort not to say _always, if I can help it_. Instead, he nods. He signals for the check and sneaks a look at Will's plate. "You enjoyed your meal?"

"Yeah, I did," Will nods, starting to rummage in his pocket for his wallet, "thanks."

"Will," Hannibal reaches over to touch his shoulder, "this is my treat. Please."

"No, it's okay, least I can do."

He looks quite stubborn. Hannibal acquiesces with a single nod. "All right, thank you." Will looks pleased to have won that battle, however small. Hannibal lets him hand the waiter a card and then fixes him with a glance. "Are we returning to mine for dessert, then?"

"Sure," Will nods. Something alights behind his eyes again, a peek behind the curtain. "Will you play something for me?"

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs. "Tonight I will play for you."

The server delivers Will's card back to him, along with a receipt that he stuffs in his pocket without checking. They stand, and Hannibal herds Will through the tables toward the parking lot with a hand on the small of his spine. He doesn't attempt to move away from it.

He's quiet on the drive home, as he had been on the way. Hannibal gets the sense it's Will's way of finding a place to mentally transition; parse out his thoughts until he births clarity. Hannibal parks behind the carriage, and then leads Will through the garden to get to the house. The rose-tinged twilight is luminous with the last streaks of sunset.

Will looks around with admiration. Hannibal watches only him, Ganymedan in the gloaming. He thinks of the drawing in his study; knows there will be more.

They don't talk, not for several minutes as they enter the house, and Hannibal leaves Will to collect himself momentarily as he hangs their jackets; lights the halls and kitchen softly. He finds Will waiting in the latter, hip leant against the marble counter, hands steadily wringing air.

"Would you like an after-dinner drink now?" Hannibal asks.

"No, I don't want a drink, Hannibal," Will murmurs. Then, as he's forgotten himself: "Thank you."

"I'm afraid I don't have meringues either," he says. "Though I'm sure I can make something to tempt your sweet tooth."

Will nods, eyes eventually traveling back to Hannibal. "Just- come here, maybe."

Hannibal complies. He's enraptured by this version of Will, quiet and constantly moving, so aware of himself he teems with anxious energy. It should be frustrating by some measure, his gauche shyness, but Hannibal can only find it appetizing so far. He so clearly has deeper layers beneath.

"What can I do for you, Will?" he asks, genuinely. He's uncommonly out of his depth with him, delighted by the discovery.

"Kiss me," Will says with bald need. Ever the gentleman, Hannibal complies, a bare brush of their mouths that transforms all too easily back into the biting rhythm from the other night. Will seems to be soothed by it.

Hannibal feels the creeping heat of Will's hand slide inside his jacket, cupping his waist. He breathes steadily, holding himself still for Will's exploration. His not-quite gentle ministrations of intimacy are tooth-achingly sweet. Hannibal feels a stir in his belly. Sweetness shouldn't interest him. Awkwardness shouldn't interest him. But in this case he's helpless before them. He pulls back, and Will sighs, visibly bereft of the contact. Hannibal sweeps a thumb over the bruise under his eye, yellowing on the edge of the purple like an iris petal.

"How's your nose?"

"I forget about it sometimes." He wrinkles it a bit, testing. "Feels okay, just look like a knuckle sandwich."

"You're lovely," Hannibal murmurs. Perhaps even more so with it, he thinks.

Will turns abruptly pink, stammering on a laugh. "You're wrong."

"We will agree to disagree, then." Hannibal looks at him for another moment. "Shall I play for you now?"

Will takes a steadying breath and blinks like he's waking up. "Please."

Hannibal touches his elbow and steers him towards the study. He seats himself at the harpsichord, adjusting his suit neatly. He nods to the bench. "You may join me."

Will sits, eyes transfixed on Hannibal’s hands for a second as he starts to play. He can feel them travel back up to his face. Will doesn't touch him at first, and then he does, the gentle press from knee to hip that almost makes Hannibal miss a note. His arm slips around Hannibal's waist. Hannibal leans in to him, almost unconsciously. His shoulder fits into the hollow under Will's collarbone.

"This is not conducive to perfect playing," he scolds gently.

"I don't require perfection," Will murmurs.

Hannibal kisses the top of his head, affections stoked. "Neither do I. But it's a worthwhile goal, is it not?"

"Unrealistic if I'm involved," Will says easily.

Hannibal sighs. "Self-deprecation is not becoming, Will."

Will laughs and leans harder. "You didn't think I was self-deprecating when you met me."

"What did I think, then, Will?"

"You thought I was arrogant."

"Did I?" He hums, still playing.

"You did." Will smiles, still watching his hands; the strings in the open lid of the harpsichord as they gently vibrate.

"Was it intentional?" Hannibal hums.

"It's... better at work. There's not really much I can do about it- I'm there to do a job."

"Your job is rude, then?"

"It's murder, it's generally not polite."

Hannibal smiles to himself. "Acts of cruelty seldom are. They can be beautiful though, in their way. So often savagery holds the hand of purity."

"It's hard to think about savagery while you're playing the harpsichord," Will murmurs.

"The point of most art," Hannibal points out, "is to disguise savagery."

"Not to truly elevate yourself?"

"Not ourselves, Will, but the world around us. Futility, and purposelessness. Art elevates the mundane to the divine."

"And hides the savage nature of the artist?"

"I would occasionally suggest it makes a spectacle of it."

Will nods, eyes focusing somewhere far away. Hannibal notices his inattention, and stills his hands slowly, evaluating him for a moment. He looks, for an instant, as young as he's afraid he is.

"Will," Hannibal prompts gently. He nudges their arms. Will doesn't jolt, but blinks, turning his eyes on Hannibal.

"Sorry. I was... listening."

"I stopped playing."

Will focuses on the keys again. "I could still hear it." He sounds a little uncertain. He bites his lip. "I'm sorry, Hannibal."

Hannibal cups a hand around his cheek. "Don't be. Just stay with me." He leans in slowly, claiming another kiss. Will goes steadily pliant against him again, all his barbs momentarily disabled. He's suddenly more engaged than Hannibal has seen him all night, too, and he almost hears the moment he clicks back into now. His hands slip up into Hannibal's hair.

He's delicious when he asks for what he wants. Hannibal is still savoring his taste, and the heat pouring off of him. He welcomes Will's swift, decisive shift over him, hands framing his narrow waist, a chuckle bleeding out between them at the unintentional tinkle of keys.

"An interesting way to compose," Hannibal teases softly.

"Elevating the banal," Will reasons, nipping at his mouth, tongue teasing.

Hannibal squeezes his hips, considering simply carrying him upstairs. He doesn't think Will would protest. He doesn't think the harpsichord would either. It might be a bit excessive, though. And Will is prone to bouts of self-consciousness.

"Hannibal," Will pulls away, breathless.

"Yes?" Hannibal looks up, eyes caressing his face. Will touches his cheeks with his thumbs, looking right at him now, the fear slid back into the drawer like Hannibal has seen him do before.

"I want to go to your room now, please.”

"Of course." Hannibal does lift him now, but only to set him on his feet. Will leans into him, and Hannibal sees him fight the urge to second guess himself. He steers him upstairs before he has the chance.

The darkness of his bedroom seems to swathe Will in a cloak of shadow. Hannibal touches his neck gently as he walks across to the mantel to light candles. When he looks back at him, the amber glow creeping up the walls, he sees Will facing the Samurai armor that lurks in the corner of the room, hair and eyes shining. His head tilts.

"Will?"

"I'm still here." His gaze finds him over his shoulder.

"You're not quite where I'd like you to be," Hannibal says. Amused, mostly.

"Tell me where you want me to be."

"Not in the corner looking at the decor."

"Broad strokes, Doctor."

"Are you requesting specificity?"

"Outright explicit is fine, too."

"Very well, then. Nude, and in my bed, and without unnecessary delay, Detective."

Will actually laughs, looking somewhere over Hannibal's shoulder as if to redirect the force of his feelings. "You're good at that."

"If you prefer orders, Will, you need only ask."

"For now, just clarity is fine." He starts to undo his shirt.

Hannibal is struck with indecision, now. Does he want to spectate or participate? "Wait," he says, apparently sliding out of it again. "Let me."

Will pauses obediently. It's his turn to take on shades of amusement as Hannibal undoes his tie swiftly. Will seems glad to have it gone, though his eyes go a little wide when Hannibal finishes his shirt buttons and shoves it down Will's arms.

Hannibal feels himself still as he drinks in the sight of him. He's pale and lovely. Peppered with ink-stains on his ribs, four distinct bruises, as if touched by the Devil's hand. Hannibal draws his fingers from his shoulders and down his sternum. Will's hands come up to his shoulders, and his eyes flick up the front of Hannibal's waistcoat.

"C'n I-?" he checks, wetting his lips.

"Let me just -" Hannibal plucks his glasses from his face, carefully folding them and setting them on a nightstand. Will blinks a bit, smile touching the corners of his mouth.

"How'd you know?"

"How did I know what?"

"That it helps to let things go blurry."

"Observation. You don't wear them much at home."

Will nods, hands returning to the waistcoat, where they smooth over the fabric for a moment. "God, this is soft."

It's an odd thing to say, but Hannibal likes seeing glimpses of Will's mind; the way he responds to touch and sound. Will lingers on his clothes for a moment longer before he starts to unbutton it. His careful fingers speak to his attested hobby of fixing things. Hannibal lets him take off waistcoat, tie and shirt without comment. Will's eyes provide more than sufficient commentary as it is. Hannibal is as proud of his body as he is of his mind, but he rarely shares it. Will's breath comes quicker as layers of cotton and silk and wool disappear, and Hannibal feels his own blood start to heat.

"Jesus, Hannibal," Will says, under his breath. His hands cup Hannibal's ribs delicately. Hannibal's own hands seek Will's narrow waist. They look at one another, eyes slowly meeting. Will lets out a shaky breath. "No point in stopping here," he mutters, reaching for Hannibal's belt.

"Well, I did specify nudity."

"You did." Will's hands don't start to noticeably shake until he's dealt with Hannibal's trousers, shoes, and socks, so Hannibal pushes him gently onto the mattress and returns the favor while Will curls his fingers into the duvet. He's humbled by the raw need in Will's gaze; the slow bob of his throat. He takes Will's boxers too, letting his gaze travel up and down while Will watches him. He's uncommonly affected just by Will's unsteady breaths; his knuckles whitening on the coverlet. "Come here," he murmurs, pulling Hannibal down by his shoulders.

His expression might be read as aroused or unsettled by Hannibal settling over him, hands on his wrists and knees, straddling his thighs like a cage. Hannibal will be satisfied by either.

"We should probably have a conversation about proceedings," he says, a bit of a grin behind the formality.

"You have my full attention," Hannibal promises. It has the completely desired effect of making Will hum and arch, brows quirking in an 'is that so?' way that suits him too much. Hannibal presses down to him, and Will sighs.

"I haven't done this in a while."

"So I understood from our dinner conversation."

Will nips his chin to silence him. "How do you... want this to go?"

So deliciously, yet irritatingly vague. "As I've said before," he murmurs, "I'm at your disposal."

"Oh, you're good," Will laughs. "I'm clean," he adds quietly. "If you were wondering."

Hannibal's body, usually perfectly controlled, reacts with a single, harsh shiver. He marvels at Will for a moment, somewhere near speechless. "As am I," he says eventually. Will, watching his face intently, instantly looks contrite, like he's said something wrong.

"We uh, don't- that wasn't necessarily a proposition. Just... a clarification."

"It can be a proposition," Hannibal murmurs.

"It is then." He wets his lips, hands wringing a bit under Hannibal's grip. "I want you... inside of me. I can't stop thinking about it."

Hannibal breathes out. "You have only to ask."

It's gratifying to watch him shift again, suspended between arousal and fear. _Are you really gonna make me spell it out?_ "Please," he offers, biting his lower lip.

Hannibal leans down to bite it himself. "Anything you want."

He lets go of Will's wrists experimentally. Still faintly shaky, Will reaches to touch his cheeks, pulling him down into another deep kiss. He kisses not unlike he wants them to merge into one creature. Hannibal finds he very much wants it too. He grips his flank, sighing at Will's arms folding around his neck. He lets his full weight down onto Will, slowly so he doesn't startle him. Will's thighs part, closing against his hips.

"Fuck," he mutters against Hannibal's mouth. His hands find Hannibal's hair. He's suddenly entirely kinetic, hips squirming and his hands tightening.

Hannibal feels the urgency growing in his every shift. He starts touching his skin, long, steady strokes. He breaks the kiss to taste the line of his jaw, down his throat, pleased at the gasp it prompts. Will's skin is silky under Hannibal's lips. His fingers traverse down his neck, to the planes of his back, exploring bone and muscle.

"You have a beautiful body," Hannibal murmurs.

"It gets me from A to B," Will shrugs, palm slipping to Hannibal's hip as he pulls them closer together.

Hannibal sets his teeth into the rise of his collarbone. He rocks down as Will bows up with a subvocal sound.

Their cocks rub together, deliciously slow friction. Will buries his face against Hannibal's shoulder, mouth smearing kisses, his breaths hot. Hannibal nuzzles under his ear, feeling his pulse against his lips.

"Hannibal," Will breathes, one foot winding over his calf, "please-"

"Please?" Hannibal echoes, setting the edge of his teeth against his neck. He smiles a bit when Will tips his chin up, proffered like a sacrifice. Dangerous. Will has no idea. He skims his fingers down his throat, nipping only gently at his skin. Will lets out a quaking sigh.

Hannibal keeps his mouth moving. Down his chest, tongue making a cursory inventory of the way he tastes; what makes him gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He breathes in the scent of his skin and curls his tongue around a nipple when a gentle kiss makes Will rock up.

"Oh fuck," he hears him mutter, and forgives him with the gentle dig of his nails into Hannibal's shoulder. He's lithe and hard-edged like this, the hot weight of his cock dragging damp against Hannibal's ribs with his movements. The lifts of his hips are increasingly blatant. The temptation to drag the pleading out of him is there, but Hannibal's own arousal is an insistent ache, and he only allows himself a moment longer to tease before he kneels up.

He leans over to his bedside table for lube. Will leans up on an elbow to trace a hand up his side, hips twisting. He sets a kiss against Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal gets a hand under his chin and lifts his face for a proper kiss. Will clutches at him for a moment, and then shifts, moving with Hannibal's hands to settle on his stomach. Hannibal kisses his shoulders and temple as he opens the bottle, listening to Will's rushed breathing.

"Are you still with me?" he murmurs.

Will looks back at him, eyes soft and dark. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

"I feel the same." Hannibal keeps eye contact as he slicks his fingers and settles onto his knees. Will bites his lip at the first press of his fingers, hips arching back. Hannibal watches his eyes fall shut. It makes his face harder to read, but physically he looks even more angelic. He's surprisingly relaxed, though he shivers incrementally when the first finger slides slick to the knuckle.

"All right?" Hannibal checks.

He nods against the pillow, curls whispering on silk. "I'm good." He noses at Hannibal when he leans to kiss his temple. Hannibal briefly claims his mouth, then withdraws. He refocuses on prepping him, working his wrist gently and experimentally until he hears Will's breath catch again. More confident of the angle, he repeats the thrust.

"Fuck," Will mutters, hips jerking, "s'good." He grinds his hips into the mattress for a moment, mouth slackening. It's enchanting to watch, and Hannibal almost has to remind himself to continue, working him open until it's easy; until Will is gritting his teeth, drawing his elbows under himself so the muscles in his back coil. His head drops between his braced arms. "Fuck me, please."

"Just wait." Hannibal starts to ease the second finger in, watching Will bow up with the stretch. "Almost there."

"Hannibal," he groans into the coverlet.

He shushes him gently, his other hand settling on his nape to gentle him as he thrusts with his fingers. His hair coils more with dampness, clinging to Hannibal's fingers. The sound of his vocal breaths ratchets higher as Hannibal stretches him enough to slide in a third finger. He's slicker, softer now, but Hannibal is patient until Will finally lets out a choked cry.

"Hannibal- please."

"Yes, shh, you've been very good." He kisses Will's temple and reaches for the lube again.

Will laughs helplessly. "You've been insufferable."

"I always am. You've still been good." He slicks himself thoroughly, nudging Will's thighs wider, humming in approval when he bridges up.

"Thank you?" Will clearly tries to sound put out, and fails.

Hannibal chuckles and lines himself up, pushing in slowly but without hesitation. His knuckles settle against the mattress as he lets his weight do most of the work, fighting the undignified spear of need that goes through him at the sight of Will pushing back to meet him. He will stay steady, keep control of this. Will feels impossibly hot, impossibly tight. Hannibal hears him swear again under his breath. For anyone else, it would be crude. For Will, it's a sign of how deeply he's feeling this.

"Hannibal," he breathes, so quiet that Hannibal tucks his cheek against his to hear him, "god, you feel so good- move, I can- I want you to move."

"Tell me how it feels," Hannibal murmurs back.

"Oh, god- full. Feels like I've made space for you inside me." His voice shakes. "Like being repurposed."

Hannibal's chest tightens painfully, and he breathes through a shudder. Chest brushing against Will's shoulder blades, he flexes his hips back and then in deep again, closing his eyes against the cry it triggers from Will. As he does it again, and again, Will pushes up into him, and Hannibal's arm wraps him up tight, hand settling across his throat without conscious intent. He feels Will's moan against his palm; the answering clench of his body, like a secret only Hannibal can know, more of that touch-code caress they share. It's as good as permission to squeeze harder.

He turns his face into Will's hair as he does, starting to fuck him at a more brutal pace, rewarded by more of Will's low moans. He's wild now, pushing into each thrust, his moans vibrating against Hannibal's fingers. He's radiant with it, lashes catching candle light and his body drawing Hannibal deeper time and time again. Hannibal wishes abruptly for a mirror. Next time, maybe. He'll move one upstairs, or buy one. It's worth it. For now he watches Will's face from up close, each twitch of his lavender-pale lids, the crimson swells of his lips. Then, one of his hands grips Hannibal's hair gently over his shoulder, and he twists to bump their cheeks.

"Come back to me," he whispers.

Hannibal lifts him up instead, one arm banding around his chest, pressing them back to front and yanking his head back to get at his mouth. Will moans hard against his tongue, helpless to do anything but arch as Hannibal lets his hips go in fast, jagged thrusts that make their skin clap. It's not dignified, but he's beyond caring. Will is clenching around him, one hand still wringing at his hair, all the artifice blown off them to leave nothing but rut and lust. Hannibal can't remember feeling anything quite like it. He can barely tell where Will leaves off and he begins. He can't think of anything, suddenly, but the clutch of his flesh and the sound of his voice.

"Please," he moans brokenly. " _Now_."

Helpless to do anything but obey, Hannibal tightens his hand and thrusts until everything draws tight and his orgasm hits with near-blinding force. Will's head falls back, a harsh cry torn out of his straining lungs. He grabs gently at Hannibal's hand on his throat, lacing their fingers as he pulls it down, breathing hard. Mentally incapacitated for an instant, Hannibal strokes his stomach and finds the unmistakable smear of his release.

He lets out a slow breath of his own, feeling his own blood circulate, his own chest expand against Will's back. They sink down slowly, still joined, breaths loud in the now silent bedroom. Hannibal allows himself to drape possessively over Will, who slumps bonelessly into the mattress.

Neither of them speak for a long time, but Will makes his displeasure unknown when Hannibal attempts to move away, clutching at his arms until he subsides back against him. Hannibal strokes gently through his hair when he finally has to slip from Will's body. Even so, he feels the loss in a place he's never noticed before.

He goes to the en suite for a washcloth, giving himself a cursory once over in the mirror. He's not quite sure what he sees in the version of himself that's made of glass and light. Moving through the bedroom again, eyes only for the man in his bed, it's as if he's wearing Will like a veil. Will, who leans up on his elbows to kiss him as he returns, so still where minutes ago he was in constant motion. They clean up carefully, and Will pulls Hannibal back down under the sheets.

"Now you know," Will jokes weakly, "I put out on the first date."

"Thankfully, so do I."

Will laughs, and Hannibal leans his cheek against his head, closing his eyes. "All right?" Will asks, smoothing a hand over his stomach, up his chest.

Hannibal is perfectly all right, but he feels transformed, with no way to explain the feeling. Even so, he thinks Will would appreciate the honesty. "I am not used to sharing myself so readily with people, and yet with you it seems essential."

Will hums, fingers tapping at his ribs. "I think that's flattering. Either that or I really have been interrogating you."

Hannibal smiles. "The first, I think."

Will smiles too, shifting against Hannibal's side, their bare thighs touching hip to knee. "Good." He lets Hannibal draw him closer against his body, his eyes drifting shut in obvious content. "I could probably go for that drink now, if it's still on the table."

"And dessert?"

"Absolutely." Will punctuates it with another soft kiss. Hannibal is more taken with him than he'd care to admit.

"I'm happy to provide."

"Everyone's happy then."

"Evidently." Hannibal strokes a hand down Will's bare arm. He seems content for the moment to stay here, his eyes closed so Hannibal can really look at him. He takes his time with it, inspecting the planes of Will's face and body. He leans in to kiss him once more. Will hums. Post-coital and pliant, he makes Hannibal's blood heat.

"Come downstairs with me," he murmurs.

Will nods and stretches, eyes still closed, then pushes himself up. Without making a spectacle of it, Hannibal hands Will a pair of his own pajama pants, pleased when he takes them with a small smile. They cling deliciously to his thighs, and he also shrugs back into his shirt but doesn't bother with the buttons. He looks at Hannibal, evidently amused by seeing him in his leisure wear.

Hannibal doesn't comment, just leads him out into the hall. He's already plotting how to get him into the shower later. The thought of wrapping Will in his own scents of detergent and soap and shampoo is irresistible. Currently, his pervading scent is Hannibal and sex, but there's an underlying acridness: old cologne. It will have to be dealt with.

In the kitchen, he pours them both a measure of scotch, watching Will inhale deeply over the glass before he takes his first sip. "That's good."

"I'm glad you like it." Hannibal turns his attention to his refrigerator. He starts to fish out the ingredients for soufflé. Will watches intently from his perch at a counter stool.

"You always look so at home in the kitchen," he murmurs.

"Thank you, that's a lovely compliment."

"Just an observation," Will shrugs. "So rare to see the moments when people are really themselves. So many layers of selves entrenched in us."

Hannibal hums. "Indeed." He considers it as he sets up his mixer. "You sound wistful at the thought. Do you struggle with a sense of self? Between staring into death, and having it stare into you- do you still feel its gaze when you're alone?"

"My god, that's... I'll need to drink the rest of this first." Hannibal crooks a smile and waits. "How'd you know?" Will asks softly once he, true to his word, tosses back his glass.

"We already established you have an excess of empathy, and I've noticed you to be a gifted mimic. Easy to emulate others, especially if you're not closely moored to your own mannerisms."

"I have plenty of those, though."

"I was not suggesting you without personality," he assures.

Will laughs. "I know."

Hannibal glances at him. He's not sure how far this post-coital easiness will stretch, but Will seems relaxed enough for now. "Were you alone a lot as a child?"

"Almost all the time," Will murmurs. He takes his opportunity to land his retaliation. "You were, too. Isolation breeds inflexibility- especially in lifestyles and habits."

Hannibal inclines his head, acknowledging it. "I was happier that way, often."

"Yes," Will murmurs. "I imagine you were."

"Likewise, Will."

"We moved so much," Will tells him. "It was easier." He looks into his empty glass like it might help him out. Hannibal reaches over to refill it. "Thanks." He takes another hasty sip. "What are you making, anyway?"

"Chocolate soufflé." He doesn't need to look at Will to know he's smiling. He does have a sweet tooth, then. Hannibal muses on whether it's a side effect of Will's debatable alcoholism, or a question of simple taste. "I have an idea for breakfast, too, if you're staying."

Will's cheeks flush. "I... think I might...."

"Good." Hannibal holds an arm out for him, melting chocolate over a double boiler now. Will tucks against his side like he had earlier at the harpsichord. He lets out a little, surprised chuckle when Hannibal leans in to kiss him soundly. The novelty has yet to cease to amuse.

"Can I do anything?" Will asks.

"You might prepare the pan," Hannibal decides.

"Oh, uh, okay." Will doesn't look reluctant, quite the contrary, but he is looking like Hannibal just asked him to perform a soliloquy from Hamlet.

Hannibal points out the correct cabinet. "The soufflé pan is in there. The cups need to be buttered."

Tentatively, Will follows his instructions, a reluctant smile forming at the corner of his mouth when he gets to running buttered wax paper around the cups.

"I said butter them, not plaster them, Will."

"I build houses," Will grumbles. He goes more steadily for the next, while Hannibal folds egg whites into his soufflé batter carefully. Soon enough, they're in the oven and Hannibal refreshes both their drinks. Will washes his hands carefully and Hannibal sees the line of tension, that had revisited his shoulders during their previous conversation, has vanished again. Opening up is clearly counter to his nature.

While the soufflé bakes, Hannibal takes out cream to whip, while Will busies himself with the dishes. Having him in the kitchen is both satisfying and immensely distracting.

Hannibal enjoys balancing the two as he serves up their dessert. The noise Will makes is borderline obscene, now that Hannibal knows what his actual passion sounds like.

"Hannibal," he says, eyes widening comically, "I might have to report this to Narcotics."

It's not nearly as funny as he thinks it is, but Hannibal smiles anyway. "It sounds like they're already keeping tabs on my coffee."

Will chuckles. "Mea culpa."

"Infamy is as good a form of attention as any." He attends to his own dessert, then. Still, he watches Will when circumstance permits. He's learning his expressions; his tells, even. "You grew up with your father. Tell me about that?"

Will shrugs eloquently. "He did his best. I was... on occasion difficult."

"Troublemaker?" It's hard to imagine that.

"Not really that kind of trouble." He smiles rather humorlessly.

"What kind?" Hannibal mirrors it.

"Being a teenager was hard. I - things got... dark in my head sometimes."

"You were prone to depressive episodes?" Will nods. "You were an only child with an unstable home life and an arguably absentee father. You could have done a lot worse than been a miserable teenager."

"I suppose," Will says. He fidgets a bit. Hannibal tastes it like blood in water.

"Did you do a lot worse, Will?" He can practically smell the sweat.

"Just troubled teenager stuff. Nothing horrendous. Shoplifted a while. Adopted a dog without permission." He smiles thinly. "Sorry to disappoint." He's lying, somehow.

"Of course." Hannibal watches him. He's not naturally untruthful, and he doubts he'll rally to his attempt now. Predictably, Will sighs at himself. He takes another bite of soufflé.

"It's clever, the way you just wait for people to tell you their secrets," he says eventually, "you should definitely go into psychiatry."

"I'll consider it," Hannibal says, unruffled. If anything, having his wrist slapped by Will is the most hostility he's seen toward his mental prodding since the first night he stood in Hannibal's study and sneered at his academic accomplishments. Hannibal really feels he shouldn't enjoy it so much.

He lets Will alone for a while then they finish dessert and clean up. He keeps touching him casually as they work. By the time Will's made his way through his third drink, he's malleable, even chatty by his rather limited standards. He's mostly talking about New Orleans.

They wash up as they talk, and eventually retire back upstairs to the bedroom. Will starts licking his lips nervously about halfway there.

Hannibal sets a gentle hand against his waist. "What is it?"

"I'm just - it's been a long time since I shared a bed, and -"

And he has nightmares. Hannibal tucks his hand under his shirt as they get to the doorway. "You only need wake me if you need anything," he promises, "it's not a problem." Will's been biting his lip. Hannibal leans in to bite it instead. He feels Will's surprised breath against his cheek. Pulling him inside, he starts to ease his shirt back off his shoulders.

Held close, Will's head finds his shoulder, curls tumbling across his face. "Hannibal," he whispers.

"Perhaps a shower before bed," Hannibal offers, cupping his cheek, his other hand sliding up his bare spine.

Will makes a quiet noise. "If you like."

"I can find a way to convince you, if you're not sold on the idea."

"If you're coming with, that's incentive enough."

"I am most definitely accompanying you."

Will grins at the floor. His hands slide under the hem of Hannibal's sweater carefully. "Lead the way."

Will touching him is impeding that. Hannibal lets him remove the jumper and tugs him through to the en suite. He notices Will's eyes swing around the room as he goes to turn on the water.

"Nice renovation," he says.

"Thank you." Hannibal raises his eyebrows.

"Decadent," Will murmurs, lips twitching.

"You are unaccustomed to having what you want. I am not." Hannibal stands back, holding the gleaming glass door of the spacious shower for him.

Will lets the pajama pants slip down his legs and steps out of them. Beholding him bare and in the light is all too humbling. Hannibal watches him step into the shower and follows him in. He steps behind him and reaches around his body to adjust the shower knobs and nozzles.

Will turns his face up against the spray, letting out a sigh. Hannibal watches the water run through his curls and down his neck and shoulders. He smiles when Will turns into his chest, hands lingering at his waist. "This is nice."

"It is." He cups Will's cheek.

"You're nice," Will adds belatedly, with another crooked grin.

"I can be." Hannibal dips his head for another kiss, this one soft and humid. He feels Will's sound of agreement buzzing in his lips. His fingers flex on Hannibal's waist. He feels hard and too thin in places when Hannibal does the same, deceptively small despite a sturdy frame. He needs feeding. The thought makes him sigh, nosing under Will's jaw gently. His skin there still tastes more of salt than of water, and Hannibal trails his tongue down slowly.

Shivering under the attention, Will grips gently at his shoulders. Hannibal keeps his own hands moving. He kisses down his chest, luxuriating in the sounds Will makes; the way his fingers card into his hair. The steam and water wreaths them both, caressing like their own hands. Hannibal finds it so easy to lose himself in Will like this, a few drinks down and needy with it. This is why he left the other night. He won't make that mistake again.

"Hannibal," Will murmurs, "this is not showering."

Hannibal sighs. "May I wash your hair?"

Will looks briefly bewildered but covers it quickly. Even flushed in the warmth of the water, his ears turn red. "If- if you want, sure."

Hannibal wants. He has no interest in dissecting the desire, merely carrying it out. He pulls Will around gently, humming in approval at the sight of his back. He's so beautifully made.

He gets to work on lathering shampoo into Will's hair in gently sweeping motions. He massages gently with his fingertips. He sees Will's shoulders draw back, and then slowly release again.

"Do you do this for everyone, Doctor?"

"Of course not."

Will chuckles, a faintly nervous sound. "That smells good. Is everything in your life just an extravagance?"

"You say extravagance as if pleasure wasn't an acceptable motivation."

"It seldom is in my experience."

"And you're not willing to experience something different?"

"I am generally wary of change."

Hannibal is unsurprised. "I want you to enjoy this, Will," he murmurs. "If you like, you can consider it _my_ pleasure."

He's silent for a moment while he contemplates it, letting Hannibal rinse the suds from his hair, his free hand following their path down his spine. He reaches for soap while Will is distracted. With his hands sweeping over his chest and down his stomach, Will seems even less inclined to retaliate. His body blooms with heat and rushing blood, cock swelling, and Hannibal has to concentrate.

"S'nice," Will says, voice tight with the reluctant admittance Hannibal has heard him use before. He kneels to continue - perhaps also to hear Will's gasp, and he's not disappointed. "Thorough, aren't you?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"I'm-" Will shivers as Hannibal's fingers skirt up his inseam, "oh, god."

"Quite clean, I believe." But Hannibal doesn't move. He watches Will steady himself with a palm against the tile. With the misted light licking against the contours of his back, he looks as much of a work of art as ever.

Hannibal sets gentle hands against the swell of his ass and spreads him. The near-pained noise of disbelief Will makes at the contact of his tongue goes straight to his cock. He wants to hear nothing else but that small cry of blissful pain. His only regret is, once again, the absence of a mirror. Then he concentrates on working Will's body.

He licks slowly into him, savoring the slight vibrations of his vocalizations; the shake of his hips under his hands. Water plasters his hair to his face. He closes his eyes.

Will reaches back and grasps gently at his hair, groaning into the skin of his arm where he supports himself. Hannibal reaches around his body and trails his fingers down his shaft. It triggers another soft stream of swears and noises. "Hannibal," Will gasps. "I'm -"

Hannibal continues, saturated in the taste and smell of him, right to the back of his throat. He's burning at the realization that Will still tastes of him. Will is quite literally quivering under his hands. His noises go rough and unschooled when Hannibal closes his hand around him and strokes in tandem with the press of his tongue.

"Oh, fuck," he groans. "Hannibal, fuck."

His thighs tense, a shuddering gasp breaking out of him as Hannibal's hand cups over the head of his cock, concentrating the stimulation there while he presses deeper with his tongue. He can feel Will steadily leaking, whining as the sensation builds.

"Hannibal," he chokes it like a tearful prayer, locking up as his orgasm overwhelms him.

Hannibal hums into his skin, holding him steady. Will's fingernails scritch against his scalp, the touch soothing as he relaxes against the wall, panting hard.

"That was..."

It was nearly unprecedented for Will Graham, he senses. He kisses the small of his back, thumbs pressing into the dimples there. Will sighs and slowly turns around, sinking down in front of him.

Their eyes meet. Hannibal marvels at his expression. He looks fractured, even as he leans in to connect their mouths, pressing in close to touch him with urgent hands. He reaches between Hannibal's thighs, making a soft, desperate noise to find him so hard.

"Fuck, Hannibal, you feel good."

"Thank you," Hannibal murmurs, allowing Will to gather him closer. That makes him laugh against his mouth, curling his hand around his length with intent. Hannibal lets out a sigh of pleasure. It's entirely too fulfilling to have his attention in this way, his hands delicate and his eyes dark with need. Hannibal's need, not his own - Will's capacity for empathy is stunning. Hannibal aches at the sight of it, coupled with the fast stroke of Will's hand, his heated breath. Nuzzling at Will's temple, he murmurs softly, "You feel good, too." He arches, suspended in the pleasure and novelty of it. Will kisses his throat and sighs.

"Come, Hannibal...."

It's not going to be hard. He pushes his face into Will's shoulders, gripping at his hair with one hand. He lets his hips pulse forward, surrounded by Will's grip, Will's scent, the falling water. Will coaxes him with squeezing strokes, his teeth scraping at his jaw, and Hannibal comes with a gasp.

When his breathing slows, Will nuzzles the stinging skin. "Time for you to wash up, too."

"Mm," Hannibal agrees, head pleasantly empty. He enjoys the way Will touches him, though it's not as sexual as before. He shyly returns the favor from before, washing Hannibal down before they turn off the water.

Hannibal plucks two towels off the warmer and hands one to Will, who doesn't comment but stares a bit at the cotton. He wraps it around his waist and follows Hannibal into the bedroom.

Silently, they both get dressed for bed. Sliding back under the sheets, Will tucks himself against Hannibal's side, watching him for a long moment until the lights are turned off. Hannibal watches back without any hesitation. Slowly, Will lifts a hand and touches his collar bones gently.

"Thank you for tonight."

"Thanks is unnecessary, the pleasure was mine."

"I still want to thank you."

"Very well," Hannibal murmurs, leaning in for a kiss. Will's smile is sweet against his lips. He seems to have lost his nervousness again. As tantalizing as it is, Hannibal is glad. He watches his eyes start to drift shut. It's both a novelty and a relief to have someone here like this. That's not quite the reaction he anticipated, either. He interrogates himself mentally until sleep comes for him as well.


	5. Chapter 5

Will jerks awake with the phantom feeling of hands on his throat, and sits panting in the dark for a few long seconds before his rational mind comes back on track. He's in Hannibal's house. In his bed. He looks down at him, looking endearingly disheveled in sleep. He’d have considered it almost impossible to imagine this yesterday, but now every luxurious detail is right there before him.

He settles slowly back down, momentarily startled when Hannibal's hand finds his waist, drawing him close. "It's okay," he murmurs, accent thicker with sleep, "just a dream."

Will takes a deep breath. "Just a dream."

Hannibal tucks a kiss against his shoulder and keeps him close. Will drifts asleep again to the sound of his breaths.

When he wakes again, it's to an empty bed, and the sun peeking through the gaps in the heavy, dark curtains. It's quiet, but he can smell coffee and he guesses where he'll find his host.

Hannibal is busily maneuvering around the kitchen in his robe while things hiss and bubble on the stove. It's still fascinating, even having seen him cook before. He watches him for as long as he can, until Hannibal catches sight of him.

"Will, good morning," he says with a bit of a sleepy smile.

"Hi..." he comes toward him, half uncertain. He wants to kiss him good morning. Even thinks it'd be welcome. Hannibal gives him this chin-forward, expectant smile, beatific. As soon as he's within arm's reach, he's drawn in. He kisses him gently, ears going pink. "Sleep okay?"

"Very well. You?"

"Yeah. Relatively."

"Well," Hannibal murmurs. "I have coffee ready for us, if you'd like."

"That sounds good, thanks." He accepts the cup and sips, eyes closed. Hannibal accepts his weight as he leans into him. Will hears him inhale. Then he kisses Will's temple.

"Do you work today?"

Will nods. "Later. Second shift."

"So you'll stay a while?"

"If you want," Will looks down, studying the stovetop.

"Unless you don't."

He does, undeniably. "I can stay a while."

"Good. Breakfast is almost ready, and then...." Hannibal lets the statement trail off. Will lets the insinuation whirl in his head before he realizes it's real; this is real.

"I'm sure we'll think of something."

Hannibal smiles. "Go sit down. I'll bring your breakfast." And he does. Eggs Benedict - "I cure my own ham," he says with a half-smile - and delicate roasted potatoes, a glass of fresh orange juice. More coffee. Will doesn't know how to express his gratitude, so he just eats and hums with pleasure. He has a feeling he'll work off a few calories shortly. Hannibal is watching him from the seat opposite with barely-disguised desire. Will gets the feeling he doesn't often have to work so hard to disguise his emotions, and isn't entirely sure how to- or at least not this one. Will could teach him a thing or two about it, really, but he likes seeing it.

"What's your workload like today?"

"I have the day off, actually, unless there's an emergency."

"Any other plans?"

"I might go visit a gallery later," he hums casually. "Listen to music. I'm not sure."

Will sighs, a touch wistful. He can see Hannibal moving among the art like he's escaped from one of the frames. "Is there anything you do that is mundane?"

"I ought to change my sheets later," Hannibal says, somehow withholding a smirk.

"Need a hand?"

Hannibal reaches out casually and links his fingers around Will's wrist. "Does that mean you are returning after work?"

"Oh- uh, I meant before I go," Will chuckles, "I don't think you'll want me after work as well."

"Don't be so certain," Hannibal murmurs.

Will bites his lip, taken aback by his frankness. It makes his own keenness seem more palatable. "I might run late..."

"It is entirely up to you," Hannibal says.

"Well, if I'm turning up at your house at midnight, I'd say it's up to you." He wants to, though.

"I'll be awake." Hannibal smiles, thumb skimming his pulse point.

"I'll call you first," Will says, going back to eating one-handed.

"All right. I'll stay flexible."

Hannibal seems to prefer watching him eat to actually eating. Will doesn't mind at all. He's thinking pleasantly about going back upstairs. He lets himself mull on it, until it feels easy, and he can pull Hannibal in by the front of his robe to kiss him when they've cleaned up after breakfast. Hannibal, despite being larger and stronger, comes easily.

"Want me to help you change those sheets?" Will says.

"I am sure we will get to it."

Will bites his lip. "Want to make them worth changing?"

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs, pulling him up the stairs, "I do."

Will leans and kisses under his ear as they make their way toward Hannibal's room. He stops walking, letting Will nose in close. It gives him an opportunity to open his robe and slide his hands inside, stroking over his chest. Seeing him so casual, so rumpled, is stunning. He can't get enough of his hitched breath as Will pulls him into his room and drops down to his knees in front of him.

Hannibal touches his hair immediately. Will looks up as he tugs at his waistband. "My turn."

Eyes fond, Hannibal strokes his hair again gently. Will jerks his pajamas down around his thighs and leans in to kiss his stomach. He feels the muscles shift underneath the layer of softness. He noses down against his firming cock, smearing his mouth against his skin. His foreskin slides like velvet under Will's tongue, but his breath stays steady.

Will closes his lips over the head to suck gently, humming when he finally sighs and his fingers twine through curls.

"Will," he breathes, tone praising.

It makes his chest bloom with satisfaction. He sucks him deeper, cheeks drawing hollow with the effort and his eyes flickering shut: it's been a while since he did this. A good while. He finds that he's missed it. Especially when Hannibal's hands tighten, his movements becoming steadily more engaged. Will is finding that letting Hannibal have his way is usually fairly good for the both of them.

He only half stifles a groan when Hannibal's fingers curve along his jaw, both thumbs touching under his chin, his grip firm but gentle.

"Very pretty," he tells Will softly, leaning back to let the head of his cock slide against Will's tongue; lower lip.

Will feels need strike him like a jolt of static.

 He watches Hannibal, lifting his hands to his thighs, fingers skimming. It feels a bit like supplication. He welcomes the feeling, closing his eyes and drawing him back deep into his mouth: Hannibal is worthy of exalting. He's beyond Will's imagination, honestly. A being of an entirely unfathomable fabric. Will wants him like he's wanted nothing in a long time.

Will tries to show him with the pull of his hands; the swipe of his tongue. Hannibal's hands and voice continue to be soft. Will wants him like he was last night, rough and unyielding, inside him like he was meant to be there. He's just not sure how to ask.

He settles back into sucking him for now, temporarily salved by the rhythm; the feel of Hannibal's hips urging forward. They rock gently in an unceasing rhythm. It's Will that stalls first, throat sticking, his shoulders drawing up as he pulls off to breathe.

"Sorry-"

"It's all right, let me -"

"Anything you want." He's desperately sincere. Hannibal seems to know it. He shrugs his robe off, pulling Will upright to undress him in turn. He guides Will to the bed, hands exploring his skin. Will cradles his face and bites at his lower lip. "This is a novelty for me."

"What is?" Hannibal hums.

"All of it. Wanting something. Someone."

"Yes," is the reply, Hannibal's eyes dark with some not quite expressed emotion. Will accepts another deep kiss and kneels back onto the mattress, pulling Hannibal with him.

They roll over the sheets until they find a resting position, legs twined together, Will's hand on Hannibal's chest, Hannibal's in his hair. It feels unbelievably good just to be against him; to feel his heat. It begins to pool and rise from the cradle of their hips. Hannibal is kissing his throat now, hands covering his wrists, pressing them into the mattress. Will squirms, not to test his grip, but to enjoy it. Hannibal's teeth scrape, and he sighs.

"Harder," he whispers.

Hannibal pauses, nosing at the tender skin of his throat. Will feels himself starting to flush. When Hannibal bites, it sends heat through Will like a bolt. He moans. The pressure grows fractionally, his teeth sharp and small, and then he pulls back and kisses him again.

"You'll have a mark, Detective."

"I think I'd like a mark." He can feel more than see Hannibal's smile. Even so, he's hesitant, he can sense that too.

"Best to start small."

Will cranes his chin to meet his eyes, seeing the blankness there, carefully curated. He's reluctant for reasons other than leaving Will a mark, he knows that. He doesn't want to push. "Whatever you say, Doctor."

Hannibal smiles, kissing him again soundly. "You are too great a temptation." That, at least, seems true.

"What will you do with me," Will murmurs.

"I suspect I will submit, in many more ways than the obvious."

Will flexes his hands meaningfully, still banded together above his head. "Are you sure about that?"

"Submission is often more symbolic than physical," Hannibal kisses the centre of his chest gently, "you certainly suit the physical variety."

"And the other varieties?"

"I couldn't say, just yet. I'm sure you'd suit just about anything."

Will sighs, vaguely uneasy. "No promises." Hannibal nips again, at his Adam's apple this time. Will arches, hips wriggling slightly off the mattress. "Hannibal..."

"Tell me," Hannibal murmurs.

Will whines at another nip. "I want- I want you-"

"How? Like this?"

"Oh, god," he grits his teeth against the embarrassment; _grow up_. "I want you to fuck me."

"Will you leave your hands where I put them?" Hannibal asks.

Heat follows his words at a rush, making Will swallow. "Yes."

"Good." He leans over toward the bedside. The same glass bottle of lubricant makes its appearance.

Will grins a bit; he wants to joke, but it probably isn't the time. Hannibal, for his part, has gone serious. He kisses Will's ribs as he slicks his fingers, pressing gently between his thighs, stroking slow. It's both gentle and effortless.

Will can't contain his soft sounds of encouragement; can't keep from squirming. Having Hannibal's attention like this is its own singular pleasure. Focused, expert. So collected even like this. Will wants him unmoored from his careful tether; honest in the secret space they found.

"Kiss me?" he breathes.

Hannibal meets his eyes, gaze warm. "Of course."

Keeping his hands where he's told, Will lets one calf slip against Hannibal's haunches to keep him close. He can see from Hannibal's face that he's entirely obvious. That smirk that Will likes so much touches his face.

Will arches up. Hannibal's fingers are deftly working him open, rending his breaths short. He wants to beg, thinks Hannibal might like it. He works himself up for it with a few soft gasps, and then jolts when Hannibal strokes over the spot inside him that makes him tremble.

"Hannibal, please, please just-"

Hannibal hums, repeating the massage of his prostate. It sends him wordless for a moment, grabbing at the sheets.

"Hands," Hannibal warns.

"Oh _fuck_ , Hannibal, just-"

His fingers still and Will groans.

"Please," Will murmurs, craning up to kiss him, "please-"

"How sweet you say that word," Hannibal murmurs against his jaw.

"Doesn't seem to be compelling you any..."

"You don't think?"

"Well, you still aren't-"

Hannibal covers his mouth with kisses. His hands come to Will's hips, cradling them upward as he rolls down against him slowly. They both breathe in sharply at the contact.

"Come on," Will murmurs, "come on."

With a throaty noise, Hannibal pulls back, settling in between his thighs. Will arches up and groans at the first slick press of his cock, pushing for it with his hips. They press into one another equally. Keep pressing until Hannibal's hands cover his wrists again, his touch pious, their bodies so close Will imagines he hears their twin pulses in his ears. Hannibal breathes steadily in his ear, hips snapping in a hard rhythm.

"Oh, fuck, shit," Will hisses, head falling back against the mattress. It's so good it aches; sensitive from the night before. He'll surely think of this in the car, at his desk, everywhere he goes.

"So beautiful," Hannibal murmurs, against his throat.

"You are," Will chokes out. He's like something from a painting. Soft-eyes and attentive even like this, with sweat shining on his shoulders and his collarbones, muscles coiled. He's entirely focused on Will, which is unnerving and inconceivably arousing. "I want to touch you," Will admits, weakly.

"Do you?" Hannibal hums.

Will can't even describe it; the unshakeable desire to clutch him close and devour the feeling of him. He bites his lip. "I'd settle for you touching me."

Hannibal smirks again and flexes his hips, and yes, he's not wrong, they are touching.

"What is it like to be this insufferable?" Will asks.

"Extremely satisfying," Hannibal says. He doesn't even sound that out of breath. He snaps his hips just so.

Gritting his teeth against a groan, Will strains to keep from reaching for him. "Hannibal..."

Hannibal's lips close over the side of his neck, sucking at the soft skin there. He keeps moving, picking up his pace, until he's gripping at Will's thighs and spreading him wider for purchase. Will clutches at him with his legs and undulates against him. It's maddening, all the sensation, every nerve ending in him afire from Hannibal's touch. He gives himself over to it instead.

He doesn't move his hands, but he stretches the terms of their binding, pushing himself up a little on his arms to pull himself against Hannibal more tightly with his thighs. Hannibal, wise to his maneuvers, nips him.

"They're still there," Will protests, working his hips a little faster to quiet him.

Hannibal's breath stutters, just a bit. "I know."

He grips Will's hips, holding him off the mattress now, his weight supported between their arms. He tugs with Will's pushes, bringing them both to breathlessness. Will feels the long slow build to a tumble off a precipice of their own making. He closes his eyes, breaths coming ragged, punctuated with noise he can't restrain.

"Hannibal- oh fuck-"

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs back, trying to be soothing but still tense.

Will would be ashamed of his bad language if it wasn't all he could think of. His mind has gone blank and it's mostly a comfort as his body quivers with a barrage of sensations. Hannibal's hands tighten on his waist, until he's shifting, pulling Will up by his flanks until he's in his lap. The shift pushes him deeper, making Will choke on a moan. He throws his head back.

Hannibal smears kisses against his throat, hands coaxing the motions of his hips, both of them breathing hard. It's unbelievable, that he's so close to coming without a hand on him. He pushes up a little faster, letting gravity and the hands on him pull him back down hard onto Hannibal's cock. He grits his teeth and does it again and again until everything shimmers and snaps.

They're both undignified in their need now, moving hard and fluid, Hannibal setting his teeth into Will's shoulder and biting down as his hips snatch up into Will's yielding body. He feels the heat in him swell and transform beyond recognition. He feels fluid spill over his stomach, feels heat spread from his shoulder. Hannibal's hand curls around him, fingers spreading it, stroking him fast immediately. Will bucks up hard once more and breaks. The orgasm comes with such a fierce bolt that it makes his eyes sting, his chest tight.

He lets his head fall back, panting. He can feel Hannibal's answering groan against his chest, his hands tightening on his body as he chases his own climax. Will keeps pushing into him. It's a hot, intoxicating rush when he feels him come, his expression bewitching. Trembling, they collapse into one another, tangled up in the comedown.

Hannibal seems like he's not ready to let Will go for a long time, turning his face into his neck and breathing hard, hands almost painful on his skin. Will tentatively raises his hands and soothes them along Hannibal's spine. He doesn't think he's ready to let go of the feeling of Hannibal inside him yet.

Hannibal's hair spills across his face when he finally pushes himself up. They make matching noises of dismay. Will feels a smile spill across his face nevertheless. Hannibal slumps down against him as they settle back onto the sheets. It's more undignified than Will could have expected. It makes him smile even wider.

After a long period of immobility, Will pushes himself to a sitting position, still idly stroking Hannibal's skin, "I better shower."

"We really should change the sheets now."

Will laughs. "After that? Yes." Hannibal hums, rolling over to watch him. He doesn't really make a move to rise, and watching him sprawl is distracting. Their hands meet in mutual wandering, fingers lacing. "Come in the shower with me."

"Of course."

Will pulls him up carefully. It feels like he's leashed a tiger, honestly. Hannibal has a distinct hedonism about him, like his place in society is purely for show. Will wonders, turning the water on, how much of it all is just that. He's fascinated, and not only for the obvious reasons.

Hannibal turns to him when they're under the water, washing himself perfunctorily, all his attention on Will. It's enough to make him want to squirm.

He scrubs himself down. "You okay?"

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs. He leans in to kiss him chastely. Will can't help but hold onto him a moment longer.

When they're clean and dry, Will wraps his towel around his waist and helps Hannibal change the bed sheets before getting dressed. He will feel a bit overdressed in his suit from last night; he'll need to go home and change. He'd have had a go-bag if he'd been driving. It won't be an issue next time, he reasons.

Next time may even be tonight. Shit, he hopes it is. Will looks at his clothes strewn on the floor and wrinkles his nose at the thought of his underwear. "Can I borrow-?"

Hannibal opens his closet and hands him some shorts, ever the perfect host.

Putting them on is awkward, except for how Hannibal _watches_ him do it. Or maybe because of that. They're maybe a little big on Will's waist, but considerably nicer than his own beaten up boxers. He finishes dressing and folds his jacket over his arm. Hannibal is pulling on a clean shirt, immaculate as ever in what he probably thinks are more relaxed slacks. His idea of casual wear is what Will typically wears to work, but - it takes all kinds. Will is just the unkempt kind.

"Do you have time for me to make you some coffee?" Hannibal asks, pertly.

"I can make time," Will says casually.

He certainly can for smiles like the one Hannibal gives him. They meander downstairs, occasionally brushing shoulders or hands, and it's not long before Hannibal is pressing the steel thermos back into his hands.

"Thank you," he says. "I do have to go now."

"Let me get my keys and I'll drive you home."

He nods, clutching the thermos, watching Hannibal step neatly into his shoes and grab a blazer and his keys.

The Bentley is just as much of an unlooked-for pleasure as last night. Will idly imagines driving it. He's not entirely sure he could be trusted. Besides, Hannibal looks sleek and regal driving it, enough that it preoccupies Will for a longer time than is strictly necessary as they drive. He's never met anyone with a presence like that. It's intoxicating.

Pulling up outside his house, Hannibal gives Will a look over, and smiles. "So perhaps I'll see you tonight."

"I hope so," Will murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

Hannibal cups his cheek, commanding his attention for every slide of his tongue, every sweet press of his lips. When he lets Will go, he's a little flush, probably from his beard more than anything.

Will grips the thermos and murmurs, "Goodbye, have a good day."

"Take care," Hannibal says solemnly.

It feels like a wrench for Will to get out of the car and go inside. He changes quickly, avoiding his mirror until he catches a quick glimpse of purple. Then he stares. "Oh, shit," he mutters, going to examine it more closely, fingers hesitantly skimming the edge. He is _marked_ , undeniably.

It gives him a guilty kick of pleasure to see it, despite his horror. He pulls uncomfortably on his collar, but nothing is hiding it, so he leaves it be. He'll have to rely on people disliking him enough not to bring it up.

He brushes his teeth and then heads out to the car, gripping his thermos between his thighs as he drives, taking a sip whenever he gets to a light. It makes his shoulders loosen each time. By the time he gets to the precinct, he's calm, centered by the warmth of his hands and the tug inside his body as he heads up to Homicide and sits carefully at his desk. There's plenty of paperwork to address.

He makes a start on it, and then on his emails. He can't pull together anything resembling a pattern from his dismembered victims; the time in the water, and in some cases in stomach acid, has made it pretty much impossible to find any useful forensic evidence. All the victims are normal folk who suddenly went missing from their everyday lives, seemingly without any warning. Will thinks about the kind of person who would take the time to use a meat saw to portion up bodies for alligator food. It's almost like some kind of public service.

Despite his dead-ends, the morning passes by relatively quickly, considering half of his mind is still residing in Hannibal's bed, watching him sleep.

*

About four in the afternoon, dispatch calls up for Homicide detectives. A scene at Saint Louis cemetery on Esplanade Avenue - just what he needs. He responds to the call and heads out, sleeves up against the afternoon heat, the sidewalks shimmering with it. When he gets to the cemetery, as vast as it is, it isn't all that hard to find the crime scene. Crows circle ahead. Tourists cluster along the fence. The press has already arrived. Fucking New Orleans.

He ducks under the tape and flashes his badge, making his way through the clustered uniforms to take in the scene. Flies whirl over the corpse where it's posed amongst the other statues, swollen hands clasped in prayer.

Oh... no. Not a drug deal gone bad, then. He feels his lip curl in dismay, brain grinding to a halt for half a second before he makes himself look around.

"Can we get a screen up?" he asks no one in particular, his voice sounding far away. He catches a patrol officer's eye and repeats himself.

There's a flurry of movement then, securing the scene. Will circles the body and tries to take it all in while he waits for the CSU. The victim is a woman, and she's been hurt in ways Will can't consciously acknowledge yet, not without making himself. His phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. Thibodeau is on his way as well.

That's not a surprise. For once, he finds himself relieved it's not just on him. He's between partners right now, for various reasons. Mostly because no one wants to work with him. Standard.

He doesn't mind. It's quieter this way.

A clean-screen gets erected around the corpse, shielding her from prying eyes and the crows above. Will stays with her even while the photographer moves around them both, shooting Will irritated glances every now and then. He's just trying to get past the chaos and take things in.

It's getting too loud, even though nothing has really changed. He puts his hands over his ears, rubber gloves squeaking on his hair. He needs quiet.

Thibodeau finds him like that. "Will?" His voice is distant again. "Will, what's going on?"

"I need silence."

"I can tell the patrols to move out to the perimeter, but CSU..."

"I need silence," Will repeats, plaintive now. He feels like a child.

Thibodeau looks at him for a long moment, and then he sighs. "Everybody, I need the scene completely cleared," he announces, loud and authoritative.

No one argues. They know why. Will can practically feel their dismissive thoughts, but at least they're quiet.

Alone with the corpse, the noise starts to recede. Will opens his eyes, kneels down, and looks. "You were the opposite of pious in life," he murmurs, staring at the tracks of makeup on her cheeks. "But I taught you how to pray in the end." The whole thing is brutal, savage, but executed with skill. It doesn't feel like a first kill, but it feels... something. "The others didn't matter like you did. Their offenses were small. All the pieces came together with you."

This perp has been practicing, all his efforts culminating in this moment. It won't be the last, not now he's got a taste for it. But still, he has a feeling this victim is someone significant. Not a relative, he wouldn't pick someone that close, but there's a link.

"He saw you every day," he murmurs. Blinking, he pushes himself back to his feet. "Captain, we need an ID as soon as possible."

Thibodeau comes back toward him cautiously. "All right, let the CSU sweep the scene and then we'll get her to the morgue." He puts a hand on Will's shoulder. "Graham, we'll need to get you some backup on this one."

"From who?" Will mutters. "No one wants to work with me."

"You let me figure it out."

Will nods, happy to let it go for now. "We need to find out where she worked, if she were in any clubs or societies. If she volunteered."

"We will."

Thibodeau sighs. "Go get a coffee, Will, clear your head and meet us back at the lab."

Will wants Hannibal's coffee, but that's long gone. He lingers for a while longer while the CSU floods the scene, and only leaves when it becomes evident he's more hindrance than help. He stops at a drive thru for coffee, and debates calling Hannibal as he drives back to the precinct, but ultimately resists. He can't do anything until they give him an ID. They'll already have uniforms canvassing the area, though he's not above getting into door-to-doors either. In the end, he heads to the morgue, to see if anyone can give him something to work on in the interim. They might be able to match her with prints. He's surprised to bump into Katz outside the doors.

"Will! Hi!" She gives him a bright smile despite the setting.

"Beverly, hi, what are you doing down here?"

"I love to look at dead people."

"Me too."

They inspect one another for a moment, and Will sees Beverly notice his neck, smile, and not comment. "Got any more of that coffee?" she teases.

"Sadly, no." Will brandishes his paper takeout cup at her.

"That's tragic. How you been holding up?" She says it like he's suffered some kind of loss. He's not sure if she means the coffee or his mind.

"As well as possible under the circumstances." Also true, either way.

"Good to hear. I'm on late tonight, got time for dinner when your shift ends?"

"I don't know when that is going to be," Will says, trying not to sound tragic about it. "I just came from a scene. A bad one." He bites his lip, and in an effort to resurrect her estimations of him, he adds: "Also I'm- potentially have someone waiting for me, when this winds down."

"This is me, looking shocked." She pats his arm. "Tell me about the scene?"

"Uh." Will pinches his nose a bit, head aching at the thought. "Female, late twenties, impaled on what looked like a poker and propped up to look like she was praying in front of one of the graves in the cemetery."

"Eesh," Beverly shakes her head. "One of those. Need anything from me?"

Will thinks about it. "You worked homicide before you transferred, right?"

"Yeah, in Boston."

Will points a bit, bouncing the idea with the motion of his wrist. "Can you- would I be able to borrow you from Bianchi for a while on this?"

"I don't have the say so on that," she says, "but I definitely could. Would."

"Yeah, I'll ask Thibodeau to sign off on it. He doesn't want me to work it alone and- I'm unpopular."

"Savages," Beverly says. "Okay, Will, I'll wait to hear."

Surprised by her candor, Will nods. "Okay. Thank you, Bev."

"You know what I want in return," she winks.

Despite the cold door that's opened up in him since this afternoon, he smiles. "You drive a hard bargain."

"That's me. I've got to get back upstairs, Will, but call me later and let me know."

He nods, letting her go and finally pushing into the morgue, letting the chemical scent wash over him before he announces his arrival to the attending pathologist.

"Zeller," he says to get the man's attention.

He still jumps a bit, and then his expression minutely sours. "Oh, hi. You're here about Jane Doe."

"I was hoping she wasn't still a Jane Doe." He follows Zeller to a steel gurney, where the victim is still scrunched.

"She might not be when we can get her hands apart," Zeller says dryly, "She's still in rigor, but I think TOD's been messed with. Clotting patterns suggest she's been ah, kept warm a while, to keep her malleable."

"How would you do that?" Will asks absently, already forming more mental lists.

"It can be anything as rudimentary as a space heater, or a fire." He shrugs. "Hard to tell at this stage. Warm bath. Anything."

Staging area, then. He'd need transport. A van, probably. Maybe a pickup. "It was hot outside," Will murmurs, "even if she'd just gone into rigor, she can't have been there long..."

"I'm sending everything I collect up to Price," Zeller tells him. "He's your best bet."

"Yeah," Will agrees, rubbing at his nose with his wrist. "Okay. Can you tell me anything else? Cause of death?"

"Stabbed," Zeller indicates an entry wound between her ribs. "Knew exactly how to angle the knife, from the looks of it. It would have been quick."

"I suppose that's good."

"It's good that she was dead before all the other stuff, I guess," Zeller agrees. He draws a gloved finger down a bare flank. "Pressure marks. A lot of grabbing. Price might be able to get a hand spread but I doubt there'll be prints, especially if she was in a bath."

"Signs of assault?" Will asks grimly.

"Potentially. They might be the result of a struggle or the posing, but in this kind of crime..."

"It's usually something else, I know." He sighs. "Did you do a rape kit?"

"She just got here, she is stiff as a board, what do you think?"

Will bares his teeth slightly. "Well, let me know when you _do_."

"Hey, I know you think you're hot shit, Graham," Zeller starts, but then he clenches his teeth. Will turns to see Thibodeau entering the room, clearly looking for him.

"Captain," Will says.

"Will. Door-to-doors are underway, and security from streets around the cemetery is being sent in. We still need to find you a partner-"

"Katz from Narcotics said she'd work it with me if you can swing it. She worked homicide in Boston, she knows the drill."

Thibodeau looks vaguely impressed that Will has managed to get anyone to offer. "I'll talk to Bianchi," he says, bemused.

Will nods. "I'm going back to my desk until we have an ID."

"Probably a good idea." Thibodeau looks between him and Zeller reproachfully. Will shrugs helplessly, like he has no idea why Zeller dislikes him. He takes his leave even so, heading back up to his floor to start turning over the paperwork, refreshing his email periodically.

*

Around dinner time, or slightly after, he picks up his cell phone to call Hannibal. He answers almost suspiciously fast, though his voice is pleasant.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Will says softly.

"Will." It transforms into something entirely too familiar to name. "Are you all right?"

"I'm on a new case," he sighs. "Couldn't even make it through one day of boring paperwork."

"That's a shame," Hannibal murmurs. Will can hear music tinkling in the background. He closes his eyes and imagines him in the study.

"How are you? Tell me something good."

"I've made you dinner," Hannibal supplies.

"I - that's not -" Will stutters himself into silence.

"It is as far as I'm concerned. I'm well. I've had a productive afternoon."

"I'm glad one of us has."

"It will catch you up soon enough, I'm sure."

Will laughs. "No doubt. Hannibal, I just...don't know when I'm going to be done yet, I'm sorry."

"That's quite all right. Thank you for letting me know."

"I just wanted to hear your voice," Will sighs. That seems to render him quiet for a moment, surprised or thinking how to respond or both.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks, gently.

"The scene we found today," Will sighs. "It's one of the bad ones. I probably shouldn't say more than that."

"All right." Hannibal pauses. "Do you need me to do anything for you?"

"No, just - maybe. I'll call again later."

"Very good, Will." He sounds so calm. "I'll be waiting."

Will says goodbye and hangs up and sighs again. He shouldn't do this, he knows; shouldn't make Hannibal his salve. It won't be good for them. It's not fair to ask anyone to hold him together. He rubs his chin, jumping when a hand lands on his shoulder.

"Will." Beverly frowns. "I'm sorry-"

And here's the other person he's hoping will hold him together. It's not fair to ask her either. "Don't be. I was just thinking."

"You looked upset."

"I always look like this."

"No you don't. Sometimes you look like this." She scowls exaggeratedly.

Will laughs despite himself. "That's true." He thinks a bit. "Did Thibodeau send you up?"

Bev chuckles, "I don't know what dirt he has on Bianchi, but he made quick work of the request for borrowing my awesome skills."

"He really likes the idea of me having a babysitter. I uh- I was a little panicky at the scene earlier." He winces at his own words; they sound so much like a warning.

Bev doesn't blink, just pulls a chair over, perches on it, and says, "Tell me more about that."

"Not much to tell." He prods at a point on his throat that is touch-tender. "It was- there was just a lot of noise."

"Yeah, that happens. Press?"

"Tourists everywhere," he says sourly. It tastes like turned milk to think of them rubbernecking. Beverly tilts her head. "He wanted to make a display of her, and he did," Will murmurs. Part of him feels it like it's his own emotion, feels _good_ about it. He hates it.

Beverly nods in understanding. "You hated that he was getting what he wanted. You wanted it to stop." Will nods, fingers still tapping at the bruise. Beverly sighs, considering. "You get pretty close to this stuff, Will. It's what makes you a good Detective. Don't let it break you, okay? You don't have to hold it all on your own."

"I guess not." He smiles weakly at her.

She reaches out and pats his knee gently. "I've got your back," she tells him gently.

"I wish you had an ID for me," he complains. "This is part of a bigger design."

"I dropped in on Price on my way up. They've swept for prints on Jane Doe, and taken samples." She pulls a bit of a face. "Price said something about a hair dryer for her fingers, I hope he wasn't serious."

Will shrugs. He can't fault Price's techniques. "I guess we just have to wait, then."

"Want me to pull up a system search for similar murders?" Beverly asks, scooching closer to his computer.

"Yes, let me give you a list of variables," Will nods, closing his eyes for a moment while Bev types. He lists the key indicators that might flag a hit. They spend the next few hours combing through old cases while they wait for the labs to come back.

"Prints," Bev grins, tapping him with a folder that a harried-looking assistant brings up from Price. She cracks it open. "We got an ID."

Will leans in to read it with her. "She's a telemarketer. Great, she could have picked up a stalker anywhere."

"But we know where he left her; he did it for a reason. You know that, Will." She sounds unruffled.

"Who was she praying to?" Will muses.

Beverly rifles through the folder for crime scene photos. "Maybe there's something in here." They spread them on the board in Will's office until they find the grave she was facing, then they run a search.

"It couldn't be one of the historical ones," Bev grumbles.

"This is New Orleans, everything is historical." Will leans close to make out the name on the crypt, then enters it into the system. While it runs, he leans back in his chair.

"So..." Beverly elbows him gently. "I feel compelled to ask about your love life, though obviously you don't have to tell me."

Will closes his eyes for a moment. "The friend with the coffee. We went to dinner last night. It went...well."

"I can tell." She smiles. "What's he like?"

"Elegant. Cultured. My exact opposite. He's - he was Delaney's surgeon." Beverly's brows go up at that, but it's not judgment- she looks vaguely impressed.

"Didn't you do a home visit when he got that letter? Must have made an impression."

"I guess so," Will smiles at his hands.

"Oh my god, you're blushing like a kid."

"Shut up," he laughs. "He made one too."

"I bet that doesn't happen to you that often."

"No, not often," he murmurs. The thought of Hannibal is enough to distract him for a moment. He remembers that he's still wearing his underwear; smelling of his soap. He sighs. "He's uh- I like him a lot, actually. That's weird for me, too."

"But good, I assume."

"It's- yeah. For now, it's good. Except when murder cases keep me here when he's cooked me dinner," Will adds dryly.

"Oh my god!" Beverly doesn't hold back her cooing now. "That is cute as hell."

Will rolls his eyes, but he's not upset.

 "He is a brilliant surgeon with a qualifications list taller than I am, we're not cute." He purposefully doesn't think about Hannibal cuddling him in the aftermath of his nightmares.

Bev smirks.

 "Okay, but that expression..." she turns back to the computer. "Says otherwise."

Will has to admit she has a point.

He directs them back to the investigation, and together they draw up a victim profile and then a rudimentary outline of the killer. It's slow going, each avenue of possibility followed with painstaking detail. Eventually Will looks at a clock and groans.

"This isn't going anywhere," Bev agrees, "we need more leads. Was there anything on the security footage?"

"Nothing good."

"Let's go home."

Will pauses, looking at the victim profile. "Has the home been searched?"

"I'm sure they sent CSU there as soon as we got prints." She gives him a sidelong glance. "We'll get the photos tomorrow, I expect. Go get your dinner."

Will doesn't bother to protest. Beverly seems fairly adept at countering his arguments. He leaves, emerging out into the dark parking lot, the weight of the dead girl from the cemetery bearing on his shoulders. He takes his phone out again.

Hannibal answers on the first ring. "Hello, Will."

"I've just left work. Is it still - may I come over?"

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs.

"Then I'm on my way." He has a go-bag in his trunk today, too, but he doesn't mention that part.

Hannibal, however, does.

"Will you stay? You'll need clothes, and I run most Sunday mornings."

Will has a sudden need to witness that. "Yes, I will." At Hannibal's no-doubt amused silence, Will continues, "Do you need me to get anything on my way?"

"No, I was out earlier and did my shopping. Thank you."

"All right. See you in- say, twenty minutes."

They hang up. Will drives. His chest feels tight. He wonders if this is how it feels to get in too deep too fast. He wonders if there is truly such a thing, for him.

On arrival, he carries his go-bag and his gym kit with him, through the garden and to the back door. He raises a hand, fingertips gently tapping on the glass. Hannibal appears within a minute, smiling. He's in his pajama pants from this morning; that sweater again. Will feels himself smile wide as he goes inside.

"Hi," he says softly, holding still as Hannibal leans close for a kiss.

"Hello, Will. Are you hungry? I know it's late."

"I haven't eaten. I wanted to - to wait."

He can see the approval in Hannibal's eyes as he steers him to a seat at the breakfast bar. "Let me feed you. Would you like a drink?"

"Whiskey?" Will asks.

"Of course." He doesn't drag him about Will staying sober for sex, and Will doubts he's being presumptuous in guessing there'll be some, but he refrains from pointing it out. They're already in a slightly different place than they were last night, after all.

"How was your day?" he asks, after anything more original fails to satisfy him.

"Much as usual," Hannibal says with every appearance of thought, "but I found it subtly changed as I thought of you." He's brought the novelty where Will didn't, it seems. He's almost breathless to ask.

"How so?"

"I am not accustomed to someone else's preferences being so much on my mind. I suppose this sounds selfish."

"I'm not either. It's not selfish if you've no other... factors." Will watches him, twitching against the desire to go to him. Hannibal seems to be gathering the ingredients for whatever he intends to serve up.

"Forgive me if I seem forward, Will, but I find I don't mind making space for you in my thoughts."

"I like hearing it," Will murmurs.

Hannibal smiles. "I enjoy that look on your face."

"What is it doing?"

"Faint surprise, I believe."

"Not one of my greatest hits, but still a classic." Will relents and reaches out a hand.

Hannibal curls an arm around his waist while he reheats whatever he'd made earlier. He turns the heat down now, and turns to Will, burying his nose in his shoulder for a moment. "Tell me what happened today," he murmurs.

Will sighs. He had wondered how long Hannibal was going to let him get away with feigning short term memory loss. "Just a pretty bad scene, and it was- it was hot, and there were a lot of people, and I got nervous."

"What did you need, that they were not providing you?"

"Silence," Will whispers against his starched collar. He feels Hannibal go still. "I needed to see her how- he'd seen her, before all those people got there."

"Tell me," Hannibal murmurs.

Will bites his lip. He wants to, but he's afraid to speak it aloud; afraid of the bodily recoil from the words. Hannibal is a surgeon, though. Maybe he won't - "He made her holy," he whispers, "she was a conduit for prayers of peace in death that she could never be in life, and she was guarding someone. He wanted her still and serene amongst the grave flowers, just for a while."

He feels fingers in his hair. "Was it a punishment or a privilege?"

"Can't it be both? Either way, he made an example of her."

"Yes," Hannibal muses, stirring the pan. "An example to whom?"

"I'm not sure yet." He sighs. Hannibal kisses his temple. He looks like he's holding something back. Will lets him pull away to plate up.

It's a stir fry of sorts, more vegetables than Will's diet typically incorporates and strips of thin sliced, frizzled meat. He hands him a bowl, and a pair of chopsticks, and gestures to the stool again. Will can't explain the strangeness around his mouth; he's afraid it's because of what he said.

"I'm sorry to bring it up."

"Do not apologize for talking to me about things that are bothering you. I didn't find it distasteful."

You will, eventually, Will thinks. "You- you're finding something distasteful, you've gone all still," he prods, gently. Hannibal looks almost reproachful at having it pointed out.

"I find it distasteful that they don't value you as they should."

It isn't a lie, but it's not the primary cause for the tightness. Will eats and waits for him to spit it out.

"Your colleague, who likes my coffee- "

"Bev?" Will frowns, confused.

"You've seen her today."

"I asked for her to be assigned to the case. I don't have a partner at the moment." He waits, and watches Hannibal slowly inhale.

"She wears Chanel," he says, with barely concealed disapproval.

"You can smell it? I'd hate to know what you think of mine."

"It is unfortunate, but you're not wearing it today."

"No, because I slept here." Will is trying not to be offended. "Wait- is that why you wanted me to take a shower last night?"

Hannibal shows no sign of remorse. Will wants to laugh, it's so ridiculous. Even so, he feels he should be irritated on principle.

"I've no pretensions to good taste," he says.

"Unfortunately, I do," Hannibal says, not even bothering to make it sound apologetic, "that, and a rather sensitive olfactory system."

"Rather," Will repeats. "So you are telling me my colleague doing me a favor means I need a shower before bed, I suppose."

Hannibal gives him a raised eyebrow, but Will can see the smile in his eyes. "If I say yes?"

"Then I'll go take a shower," Will says, simply. It doesn't feel as much of an imposition as he thought it would, just doing what Hannibal asks. Like putting his hands on the mattress. At the thought, he feels a faint blush. Hannibal comes to perch beside him, his knee nudging Will's thigh. He looks pleased. "Dinner's good," Will murmurs, "thank you."

"You are welcome." Hannibal reaches to touch his knee, fingertips stroking just lightly at the inside. That, too, is suddenly acceptable to him.

Will finishes up his dinner while Hannibal sips his drink. When he's done, Hannibal takes the plate and rinses it, adding it to the pans from before.

"Are you tired?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Will nods apologetically, "is that okay?"

"Perfectly. I'll help you with your bags, and you may bring your whiskey with you."

"Thank you, Doctor." Will grabs one bag, letting Hannibal take the other as he follows him upstairs.

Hannibal goes into the bathroom to start the water heating, and Will sips his drink. The thought of Hannibal being unable to stand the smell of anyone else on him is... more preoccupying than he realized. Consuming, even. He can't resist prodding at it.

"What else can you smell on me?" he asks, softly.

Hannibal leans on the door jamb. "Burnt coffee, industrial cleaners, sweat, latex, decay."

" _Eau de crime lab_ , my signature scent."

"Not so dissimilar from _eau d'hôpital._ "

"Ah, positive associations then."

"Well, it's where I first met you." Will's eyes go a little wide, though Hannibal is as casual as ever. "Come get undressed," he says easily.

Will doesn't hesitate. A hot shower sounds like heaven. Hannibal perches against the vast marble sink, watching as he strips off his shirt and jacket. "You're not joining me?"

"Not tonight."

"But you are watching."

"I'd call it accompanying. I can leave?"

"No, don't." He drops his pants and takes off his socks, noticing Hannibal's trained stillness again as he watches him. He's very predatory at times. "Talk to me," he says, pushing down his shorts and stepping under the water.

"Certainly. Any particular topic?"

"You pick."

Hannibal laughs. "Late Renaissance art? Wagner? Proper butchering techniques?"

"Hmm," Will lets the water soak his hair and helps himself to soap, the smell automatically bringing Hannibal's wandering hands to mind. "Tell me something about you. Something you don't have nailed to the wall."

The long pause he gets in return is meaningful. "I was mute for about ten years after the death of my family," he says finally, expression open despite the solemnity of his words, "It is not uncommon in those sorts of scenarios."

"Ten years," Will murmurs.

"Difficult to believe, I know." He's smiling now when Will looks.

"Where did you go," Will asks, "when the words went away?" He's not sure why he asks- it seems important. Hannibal is slow to reply again, but when he does, he's a little breathless.

"Into the woods."

Will ducks his head under the spray to rinse, emerging dripping. "Did you get lost?"

Hannibal looks at him as he opens the shower door, visibly affected by the conversation. "Wouldn't you?"

Will holds his eyes, voice going flat and practical. "You're only lost if you intended to come back out in the same place." He wraps a towel around his waist. Hannibal doesn't move, but a line of movement fleetingly touches his shoulders like he wants to.

"One could argue anyone who does so is still lost, albeit it in a different sense of the word."

"Are you?"

Hannibal hums. "I can't honestly say I intended to return at all, so you tell me."

Will rubs another towel over his hair, emerging rumpled and pink. "I can see you." It's taking all he has not to follow Hannibal into the woods. He's not sure what he'd find.

Hannibal is staring so intently that Will rummages out a toiletry bag just to keep his own hands moving. His attention doesn't dwindle, and eventually Will goes to him, one foot between his as he leans in to kiss his jaw.

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs. He wraps an arm around Will's waist, pulling him closer. Will sighs, curling around him easily. He feels like something fragile has emerged from the depths between them. He's not under any illusions that Hannibal has coped this long without him, and certainly doesn't need his pity, but he can't help but kiss his temple and squeeze his shoulders.

"Ready for bed?" he murmurs.

"Yes. Whenever you are."

"That would be now." Will steers him back into the bedroom. He gets his shorts out of his bag, dropping his towel to pull them on. Then he feels a hand on his hip. "Leave them off?"

He turns a bit pink, but smiles. "All right." He tells himself he doesn't need the armor.

Hannibal comes to him, touching his hips, smile serene. Will can't resist kissing it. It's so easy to sink into, already familiar. His body reacts readily, flush creeping up his chest.

"Hannibal," he sighs.

"Tell me," Hannibal steps him back toward the bed, lips brushing down his throat.

"You're good at this."

"You'll have to be more specific," Hannibal whispers.

"Making me... react."

"Very diplomatic phrasing." He sounds amused.

"Some of us aren't used to indulging ourselves."

"So we've established. Can I indulge you?" He pushes Will down on the mattress, rearing back to pull off his sweatshirt swiftly.

"Yes, please." Will watches with hooded eyes. Then Hannibal's lips are against the underside of his chin, and he lets them flutter shut. "Mm- Bev stared at my neck for a light year earlier."

Hannibal hums. He sounds pleased.

"Did you think I'd been- were you jealous, before? When you smelled it?"

"If I said yes? Would that seem premature?"

"It'd seem unnecessary. I'm surprised I'm having sex with one person, let alone two."

"I am not." He bites gently. Will whines.

"I can't credibly question your taste in most areas-"

"Any," Hannibal interrupts. "In any areas."

"Yeah. We'll see." He gasps as Hannibal's tongue licks a thick stripe down over his Adam's apple. From there, he tilts his chin and bites at his collar bones, sliding gradually lower. Now that Will's clean, he seems to want to taste every inch of his skin. As enticements go, it's effective. "Hannibal-" it turns into a gasp as his teeth catch on the nub of a nipple, and he can't remember what he was going to say; can't think how to convey the way he wants to glut himself with Hannibal's touch and bury it inside himself. He just gets his hands on Hannibal's shoulders and holds him close.

The pressure of his teeth turns to gentle suction, and then another steady road of kisses, down to his stomach. Will strokes through his hair as Hannibal pulls back to regard him. His eyes are dark, his gaze intense. Will feels himself throbbing just at the undisguised desire in Hannibal's face. He's never been so baldly wanted. It burns like a deluge of wax up his spine, making him arch minutely. Hannibal smiles.

"I've wanted you quite a bit today."

"How did you want me?" Will asks.

"The specifics aren't important."

"They are to me. I like knowing what shapes your thoughts take."

Hannibal nuzzles his cheek against Will's stomach. "They were shaped like you." He's taking notice of Will's cock finally, heavy against the crease of his hip from what Will is not sure counts as a vindicating amount of stimulation. He's just that primed, by Hannibal's mere presence. He shivers as Hannibal runs a fingertip up the underside, feather-light. "They took the shape of this," he murmurs, tongue following his fingertip.

Will feels struck, watching his sleek head drop as he closes his lips over him. It feels like every fever-dream he's ever had. The weight of arousal seems almost crushingly heavy in his gut, pinning him down. Hannibal sucks, and Will's chin snaps up. "God," he groans.

His hands flicker, careful not to grasp. He can't help touching Hannibal, though. Over his crown, down behind his ears, neck, shoulders, arms. His fingers trail over Hannibal's hands on his hips, and he turns his palms up to lace their fingers.

Hannibal moans softly, deep in his throat. It buzzes softly in Will's skin, making him gasp.

"Oh- that was-"

His hips quiver. Hannibal's pace stays steady, almost savoring, his lashes pale. Will makes another noise, no words this time. It's torturous, near unbearable. He should have known Hannibal was a sadist. Knowing, feeling, he surrenders himself to it. Unconcerned, Hannibal keeps sucking, just slow enough to keep him stretched thin with it, until Will is shaking. It feels like nothing else he's ever felt.

"Hannibal," he grits finally, "please, please-" He gasps in a breath. "Please."

Tightening their linked hands, Hannibal hums in acknowledgement. He sinks down to take Will impossibly deep in his throat.

"Fuck-!" He rends Hannibal's hands in his own, going tense and liquid all at once. His hips move helplessly, a sinuous push into what he needs. Hannibal digs his nails into his knuckles, and Will comes with a gasp. Hannibal swallows it all down without a flinch. He seems to wordlessly savor it, pulling away and kissing Will's hip with wet lips. He keeps their hands linked, and Will gives them a tug.

Hannibal comes easily, pressing against him, smiling when Will makes a noise at the sensitivity of fabric on skin.

"Why are you not undressed?" Will complains.

"I was indisposed to more important matters."

"It's important to me," Will grumbles. He's never seen a man more singularly gorgeous than Hannibal Lecter; he wants to see all of him.

Obligingly, Hannibal slips out of bed and takes off the offending items. Sated, Will lets himself sink into the mattress and enjoy the sight. When Hannibal returns, he lets him kneel over his hips, reaching for him.

"Closer," he murmurs, hands skimming down to grip his flanks. He feels a low hum of fresh desire watching him comply. As he leans up, Hannibal cups the back of his neck with tender fingers.

Will takes a deep breath, inhaling Hannibal‘s scents of soap and musk caught in the crease of his hip. "You're gorgeous," he mutters. It sounds infantile, and he feels weak with it- but he needs to tell him.

Hannibal's fingers skate down the curve of his cheek. Will looks up at him as he touches his tongue to the crown of his cock. A slight drop of Hannibal's lids is all he does to indicate pleasure. Will pulls him gently, sucking him gradually deeper. With his fingers he encourages Hannibal to move his hips.

He's as gracious in this as in everything, fingertips grazing Will's cheeks. It could also be that he likes to feel himself move under the soft skin. Will likes it; he can barely keep his eyes open. Hannibal hums soft and pleased. Will takes him in as far as he can go, thumbs pressing against his hipbones. His pulse roars in his ears, eyes clenching shut.

Hannibal does make a soft noise, this time. It's as rare a gift as Will can imagine. He wonders what the key is to unlock even more. He slips one hand up to cup him; stroke gently upward into the motions of his mouth. Hannibal's hips stutter for just a moment.

Will hums, letting his palm pivot on the thumb, fingers cradling his sack, stroking gently behind as he swallows him deeper with a slick sound. Hannibal's hands hit the headboard - one-two - and his thighs part slightly. That's more like it. Will palms over soft skin and hollows his cheeks.

"Will," Hannibal whispers. He raises his eyes in acknowledgement. "Next time, if you'd like."

Will presses with a fingertip, gentle. Hannibal snags his lower lip under his teeth, and bridges into it with an easy cant of his hips. He would like, which he would admit easily enough if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied.

Hannibal's chest is starting to heave though his breaths remain quiet. Will keeps teasing with the pads of his fingers, moaning softly at his flavor, appetite sufficiently whetted. His eyes flick back up to Hannibal's face, fringed by silvering hair. His eyes are closed now, brows faintly drawn. He looks intensely focused, but still so powerful, muscles in his thighs and stomach tight. Only the thick taste of salt flooding his tongue shows his dissolution. Will keeps watching him as he increases his pace just so, finding a fluid rhythm with both mouth and hand. He's out of practice, but he knows he needs this, to give this. Hell, to take this.

He sees the moment when his experimental movements strike the right chord: a throb against his tongue, and Hannibal's teeth baring. Will groans softly in his throat, repeating himself. He's sucking him deep now, enough that the sound makes heat rise in his cheeks, and another roll of his palm elicits a low, rough noise from Hannibal that goes straight to his gut. It's as good as a curse, Will thinks. He coaxes another out of him, and a final, shuddering gasp as he starts to come.

Will has to pull back, then, but not much. He leaves his fingers where they are. Hannibal's hands come to rest on his crown while Will sucks the last trembles of it out of him, a fire of contentment lit in his belly at the taste and sound. He pulls back, licking his lips.

Hannibal lowers himself, breathing hard. He looks a wild thing now, tamed by Will's touch, hair hanging in his eyes. Will places a hand on his chest, almost fearful of finding teeth. Nothing but hair and warm skin, and the relentless thrum of blood, all of which are quite enough to sate his fear.

"Leaving that hand there?" he asks eventually, sounding unconcerned.

"Which one?" Will says, every bit as unconcerned.

Hannibal raises a brow at him, but the edge of a smile tilts his mouth. Will gives him the rest of the smile before withdrawing them both. Hannibal leans down to kiss him.

Will takes a handful of hair and holds him down. Hands cup his cheeks, so gentle. Hannibal's kiss always feels like a receiving of holy communion. Sometimes it feels like more, as sacrilegious as it would seem. When they pull apart, Will follows his features with his fingertips, sighing out the pressure that had built up inside him like steam.

"I... don't usually feel... like this."

"I'll need you to be more specific," Hannibal murmurs.

"I don't think you actually do," Will says, humming as they settle down, Hannibal sliding down his body to settle against him.

"Don't you?"

"No. Sometimes I think you know what I'm thinking before I've even formed the idea."

"I suspect you find that enjoyable."

"I suspect I'm not alone in that."

Hannibal's expression is a definite smirk. "You don't usually feel this level of... enthusiasm."

"No," Will says wryly. "I do not." A kiss against his collarbone. Will sighs. He strokes Hannibal's hair slowly. "You don't either," he murmurs.

"No," Hannibal agrees softly.

Will tugs the lock he's smoothing. "Glad we got that settled."

"I'll consider myself set to rights," Hannibal agrees. He folds Will into his arms, sighing softly. He only pulls away again to turn off the bedside light, plunging them into homely darkness. Will sighs as Hannibal wraps him up again, adjusting the sheets. He feels unbearably content. He thinks Hannibal does too. Sleep rises around them like black water, and Will goes down easy.

*

When he wakes the next morning, Will finds it nearly unbelievable, but he doesn't remember a single dream.

He looks for Hannibal, and finds him stretched out behind him, reading. "You stayed," Will mumbles.

"It took me a long time to even get this far away from you."

It's stupid how hard Will's heart thumps at that. "You mean because I was lying on your arm, don't you?"

"Yes, I was vanquished by it. You've caught me."

Will laughs and sits up, leaning into his warmth. "Good," he says, kissing a random spot on his shoulder.

Hannibal smiles. "Now that I am released from your prison, however, I would be happy to cook you breakfast."

"Stockholm syndrome has already set in," Will muses, "just as I planned."

Hannibal actually laughs, sounding rusty like he doesn't do it often. "A willing victim, I must confess."

"It's always good to confess."

Hannibal pulls him out of bed with a hum of agreement. He reaches for a robe from the closet and pulls it around Will's shoulders.

Will ties it with a grin. "Did you mention a run, Doctor?"

Pulling on his own robe, Hannibal nods. "Indeed I did. I trust you'd like to accompany me."

"I brought my gym bag," Will confirms.

"Excellent. Perhaps something light for breakfast, then, and lunch later."

Will trails him down to his kitchen, a smile playing at his lips.

"Coffee? Or there's fruit juice, if you prefer."

Hannibal opens the fridge to retrieve a carafe, the liquid inside ruby-tinged coral. Will accepts a glass of the juice. He's finding that verbally sparring with Hannibal is as much of a stimulant as he needs right now.

"Blood orange," Hannibal tells him, moving back to the fridge for breakfast, "I prefer both the flavor and the appearance."

Will finds it impossible to be surprised. "Not bad," he says glibly, just to see the slight irritation in Hannibal's mouth. He represses his own pleased smirk.

"Hellion," Hannibal mutters, with a faint smile.

Will shrugs eloquently, slipping onto a barstool. He's soon furnished with rye toast with avocado and lemon, smoked salmon and roe. He watches Hannibal garnish with herbs in a quick, practiced flick of his wrist. "I love watching you like this," he murmurs, probably not for the first time.

Still, Hannibal looks up as if it is, eyes scanning his face. "Cooking?"

"Competent," Will says. "But that too."

"I like to see you in the same way," Hannibal muses. "When I first met you, you seemed very in command of your surroundings."

"Some days are better than others," he murmurs, mind going back to the cemetery the day before.

"I'm sure that's true of all of us."

Will smiles and eats his toast. Hannibal sits beside him to eat his own. When they're done, they get ready for their run in easy quiet.

Hannibal's running gear is pristine, as expected. As is his figure. Will feels unsurprisingly inferior in his shorts and zip-up.

"I like to run down by the river," he says, stretching.

"Sounds good." Will follows suit, smiling at the slight stiffness in his muscles from the two-day fatigue of their recreational exercises. He wonders if Hannibal feels it as well. He glances at Will as he bends to do calf stretches, and Will suspects he does.

Hannibal furnishes them both with water bottles and leads him out into the morning sun. Will bounces a bit, and in the interest of indulging himself like Hannibal says he should, he nudges him. "Race you to the corner."

To his surprise, Hannibal smiles wickedly and takes off.

"Hey-!" Will gives chase. It's easy enough to catch up to him, but Hannibal is ever the tactician, letting Will run alongside before he propels himself faster for the last hundred yards. Will bares his teeth in enjoyment and pursues.

They keep an easy pace on the path down to the river, occasionally racing again. It's a pleasant morning, already turning toward heat later. They soon fall into a rhythm along the Riverwalk. Despite his breathlessness, Will can't keep himself from glancing at Hannibal, occasionally lagging behind to take in the sight of him. He's a sight to behold. He somehow looks as elegant as ever.

After a while, they pause for a breather. Will drains a quarter of his drink and uses a handful to rinse the sweat from his hairline and the nape of his neck, panting in the sun. Even Hannibal is kissed with sweat. Will loves the look of him like this, less severe than in his tailored suits, more human.

He catches Will's attention, and smiles like a predator. Will's heart beats once, twice, and he runs again, feeling the moment Hannibal gives chase.

They wind along between the river and the city. Will puts on a spurt when he's getting to the limits of his endurance, pushed to keep ahead of Hannibal. He hears Hannibal's footfalls grow faster behind him in answer, and laughs. Game is still on. He turns eventually and heads back to Hannibal's house. He's more aware than ever now that Hannibal seems to be almost holding himself back.

Will knows he's not in top fighting form. Even so, he finds himself momentarily certain that he could never outrun Hannibal; slightly discomfited by the fact. It spurs him on. He's nearly at full pelt by the time they get back on Hannibal's street. Hannibal is at his heels, then drawing even.

Through the back gate, Will gives a last desperate pulse, but Hannibal is reaching out, and when he snags him they both go down in a hard roll to the grass. Hannibal twists them at the last so he's the one who goes down first. Will lands on top of him with a laughing yelp, slapping gently at his shoulder. "Not very- chivalrous to catch me-"

"When did I pretend to chivalry?" Hannibal looks up at him, smiling. He's hardly even out of breath, the fucker.

"All's fair in love and war, huh?"

Hannibal leans up and nuzzles under his ear, inhaling slowly. "Which one is this?"

Breath hitching, Will noses into his cheek, a heavy sigh escaping him. "Well, I don't think I'd beat you in a fight."

"I am sure I wouldn't care to find out."

"Me neither," Will agrees. He kisses Hannibal's cheek. He smiles when Hannibal turns to intercept the next with his lips. Sprawled in his garden, kissing. "What will the neighbors think?"

"They might think how very fortunate I am."

"They might call the police. Then again, that's me." Will looks down on him with a wry smile.

"Is public kissing a crime now? I hadn't realized."

"Anything that feels this good is probably a crime."

"Don't say sweet things," Hannibal murmurs, touching under his chin, "it makes me want to spoil you."

"You haven't been so far?"

"I have actually been quite restrained."

It's enough to make Will's stomach do a somersault or two. "I'm not sure I'm mentally equipped to deal with you unrestrained, Doctor."

He expects another dry remark, but doesn't get it. Hannibal leans up and kisses him again, tasting of salt and clean air. Will sinks his fingers into his hair, wrapping around them like damp silk. It's indecently good to have Hannibal beneath him, sweat misted and gorgeous.

Will's blood thrums through his veins like a spring river, eddying in his hands, his chest, his groin. Hannibal grips at his waist and Will can't hold back from rocking down, humming at the noise Hannibal utters in response. Their shorts might as well be cobwebs between them.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, "my neighbors might actually object to outdoor _frottage_." He pronounces it with the accent. Will sighs in delight.

"Yes, I guess you're right."

"A shower?" Hannibal hazards.

Will relents and slips off of him, pushing up to his feet. He holds out a hand. Hannibal takes it, though he hardly needs the help.

"Thank you." He steers Will inside with a hand on his hip. Low on his hip. His hands slide to the hem of Will's shirt as soon as the door is closed and their shoes are off. "You made quite the effort on our run," he hums.

"I was trying to impress you, did it work?"

"Most effectively." He kisses him again, blurry and sweet. Will strips his shirt up and off, humming.

"Let's go upstairs." He goes, knowing Hannibal is close behind. It feels almost like chasing again, especially when Hannibal puts his hands on him in the bathroom, teeth finding his nape. His weight carries them both up against the tiled wall. "Cold," Will gasps, feeling Hannibal's smile against his skin as he presses flush to him, hips snug.

Hannibal isn't, he feels like a furnace. Will sighs and arches back into the solid heat of him, breath coming as a whine with a few more biting kisses against his neck and shoulders.

"Let me move," he groans.

Hannibal hums, considering. "I don't want to."

Will squirms, shivering a bit when all it does is trigger a firmer hold. He's not sure how Hannibal knows to do that, knows he likes it. If he likes it. He tips his chin up and gives himself over to it, allowing Hannibal once again to overcome him.


	6. Chapter 6

Back at work, Hannibal finds himself uncommonly distracted as he scrubs down from surgery. It had gone well, no complications and a record exit time, but the moment Hannibal had straightened and felt the telltale tug of well-used muscles, his thoughts had been snatched back to Will. Beautiful Will in his running shorts. Naked Will in Hannibal's shower. Smiling Will over a thermos of coffee.

He'd left yesterday - he had another article to work on before his shift today- but his scent had lingered, increasingly hard to differentiate from everyday comforts. Hannibal has work of his own to do in his office, but the space, usually so tranquil and ordered, seems cold to him without that scent and the glint of sun off of curls.

He takes off his scrubs and makes his way there, pouring himself a cup of coffee, opening up his notebook to check his correspondence. He's inputting patient files when he remembers to turn on his phone. Immediately he gets several text notifications.

They're all from Will- which is unusual. His messages are usually prompts, these are more commentary. _Another scene, might keep me busy for a few days_ , the first says. _In Mobile until tomorrow_ , says the second. That sets off a dull pang of something in Hannibal's gut- a strange, mild grief at acknowledging a distance between them. The last says, _Call me at eight?_

He looks at the time. Hours yet to go. Also, he has a staff meeting in an hour. He texts back a confirmation that he'll call and goes back to his work.

After an hour, he makes himself a cup of coffee in his French press and takes it downstairs to the board room. He's attentive for the most part, only briefly distracted when he feels his phone vibrate against his thigh. He takes a moment to check it at the break. Will, again.

_The coffee here is garbage_.

He smiles. _I'm sorry Mobile has disappointed you so greatly._

_Am I allowed to say I miss you?_ Will answers after a moment.

Hannibal stares at the words for longer than is entirely necessary, running them back and forth through several languages. _I'm only regretful I didn't get to hear you say it aloud._

_I'll say it later._

_I look forward to it._ He's still smiling absently when he feels someone at his elbow.

 He puts his phone away and looks up, shoulders straightening.

It's one of the pharma reps, smiling knowingly. "How can I help?" Hannibal says, politely.

"A little birdie told me you've been reluctant to use our new mesh product in your surgeries, Dr. Lecter."

"Then they probably told you the reasons, too."

"No, I thought I'd just ask."

Hannibal gestures. "Do you mind if we walk? I have a pre-op scheduled soon."

"Of course," the man says eagerly. Hannibal represses an eye-roll.

"As I've told your colleagues on a number of times, Mister-?"

"Daniels."

"Daniels- I simply cannot give a product patronage when I believe it to have insufficient supporting research."

Daniels immediately starts rattling off study data, but Hannibal tunes it out. When he gets to his office, he pauses at the door, waiting for an opening before he interjects. "Mr. Daniels, I appreciate your time is valuable- allow me to save you wasting any more of it on me."

"Chilton said you'd be pigheaded," Daniels says.

Ignoring the prickle of irritation that goes through him, Hannibal raises his chin. "Doctor Chilton has always had a way with words."

"He told me the staff here was open to innovation."

"I'm sure some of them are, but I am not willing to experiment with the human body just yet." He waits a beat, licking his lips. Daniels is lean, looks like he takes care of himself. No yellowed teeth or fingers. "In the event that I am in the mood to do so, though, may I take your card?"

Daniels produces it, looking hopeful. Hannibal tamps down a surge of disgust and accepts it with a word of thanks, gently but firmly closing his office door. He puts the card in his wallet, working the edge of the leather with his thumb for a minute before remembering what he had been so annoyed to be distracted from. Will.

He takes a long, calming breath. He'll be tired when he returns from Mobile. And he'll be in need of a good meal. He mentally flips through his Rolodex as he checks his reflection in the closet before retrieving his notes and heading to his appointment. Something gourmet this time. Will's palate can handle it, and Hannibal is in the mood to spend some intensive time with a meal. Call it a celebration of his return.

Once Hannibal ushers his patient back to the lobby, he returns to his contemplation; mentally rearranges his schedule to allow for prep, and types out another message in the hall outside his office. _Late dinner tomorrow? I'm cooking._

He doesn't get a reply until much later, but it makes him smile even so.

_Will there be dessert?_

_If you clear your plate, of course._

_Yes, sir._

He allows himself a single soft noise. Will is turning out to be very bad for his self-control. He'll have to re-center himself somehow. He can't leave Will hanging though- he doesn't want to. It's becoming quite clear that he must make an effort to integrate Will into his normal routines. Most of them, at any rate. He raises his phone, reading their messages again. All of them, but especially the last.

He's saved from having to answer by his phone ringing in his hands. It's not quite eight. He hadn't realized, but now that he looks outside, the sky is deep ultramarine. He raises the phone to his ear. "Will?"

"Hannibal?" Will sounds a bit beside himself.

"Are you well?"

"I'm early, aren't I? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -"

"There's no need to apologize." Hannibal is fairly certain he knows why Will is really calling. "Will, I'm just walking to my car. Keep me company?"

"Okay, yeah. If you're busy..."

"No, not at all. I am glad to hear your voice."

"Good," Will sighs, "me too- yours, I mean."

"It is at your disposal while I drive home."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Hannibal smiles slightly. "Would you like to tell me about your day?"

"Ah- it's not pleasant phone conversation really. Rather you told me about yours."

"I did a valve repair surgery this morning. Other than that it's been paperwork and meetings. And the usual irritations."

"Irritations? I hope you don't mean me."

Hannibal laughs softly, as Will clearly expects it. "No, the common pest known as sales representatives."

"Ah, of course."

"I'm looking forward to a glass of wine and an hour or so with my recipe box; that will repair my evening adequately."

"Same, but by wine, read hotel vodka, and by recipe box, read crime scene file."

They both allow a small silence. Then Hannibal says softly, "This would be an appropriate time to say it."

He can practically see Will biting his lip against a reluctant smile. His voice is steady, like he's being careful to keep it so. "I miss you."

Ah. He was right to suggest a repetition. "And I, you."

"Yeah? Well, good. This could have gotten awkward fast." He sounds relieved even so.

"Saved by mutual appreciation."

"All hail," Will sighs. "What're you making? For dinner."

"Tomorrow? Or tonight?"

"Either."

"Tomorrow is a surprise. Tonight I will save my energy somewhat. Perhaps a quiche."

"Sounds good." There's a sound like he's opening a room service menu- a venture that ends with a sigh. "Looks like I'm on... mac and cheese."

Hannibal sighs. He knows, intellectually, that he could make it to Mobile in two hours. He absolutely does not want to let himself consider it. Nor express it. "Don't tell me any more, Will," he beseeches him, only half kidding.

Will laughs, as intended. "I might even have to drink the single serve coffee in the morning."

"Please, no," Hannibal protests with a smile.

"There's two sachets of creamer," Will says, in the same way he might say 'we'll have to amputate.'

"Powder?" Hannibal allows his voice to reflect pure horror.

"Yeah, it's low fat, apparently."

"Stop, please."

Will actually laughs. "I won't tell you about the coffeemaker."

"Merciful."

"You deserve it."

"Thank you, my dear."

Another short, nervous silence from Will. "It's weird being able to call someone. You don't mind, do you- ?"

"Not at all. I understand the sentiment as well."

"Good. Ah- and my- my last text..."

Hannibal smiles to himself. Finally. "Did you have something to add?"

"I was... I panicked in case."

"I can tell. In case of what?"

"Shit, Hannibal. In case you thought I was harboring a desire to lick your shoes."

"I haven't sensed such a desire thus far." He pauses. "Though if you had been, I would not have been upset."

"No?" Will sounds uncertain.

"Everyone has sexual preferences, Will. If you're worried I might find yours concerning, it might do us both good to clear the air."

"I don't generally have enough sex to develop preferences about it," Will says, a nervous little laugh.

"Very well, maybe what you need is experimentation, then."

"Or to hear your preferences."

Hannibal thinks about it; the concept of it. "Sexual pleasure hasn't had much bearing on my life so far. Focus tends to be less on the act than the partner."

Will laughs. "Same."

Hannibal takes his own steadying breath. "I liked your message though. Not so much the wording- nothing so crass as that. But... the sentiment."

"Acquiescing to your wishes?" Will says, voice a touch dry.

Hannibal thinks about it. Maybe. "I liked the acknowledgment," he says slowly, "that you know I'd take care of you."

"That's a lot more to unpack than an authority kink, I'm guessing."

"We don't have to."

"I'd like to," Will murmurs. "I'd like to know about you. Give you what you want."

"I feel the same, Will."

"That's... that's probably good, then." Probably. What a cautious thing Will is. Hannibal finds it so incredibly fascinating. "When you touched my throat, the first time we slept together," Will continues, and then he stops again.

"Yes, I remember." He does, vividly. Will is silent, so he prompts him gently. "You liked it."

"Letting you-"

"Erotic asphyxiation is a relatively common fantasy, Will. Dangerous, but controllable."

"It's- it just sounds boring when you say it like that."

"So rephrase for me."

"It's... it wasn't so much not being able to breathe or- Jesus, the danger, I get enough of that. It was feeling like you couldn't help it."

"A loss of control on my part as well as yours," Hannibal repeats carefully.

"Yeah..." Will sighs. "Yeah, it was just... losing it. I don't think either of us do it much."

The sentence, with its accompanying little sigh, feels like a wound. An accidental cut into the heart of something Will doesn't understand. Hannibal feels for him, as much as he feels something else, deep and unnamable in his ribs. "Let's try to give one another what we want," Hannibal suggests softly.

"I- yeah. I want that. You do- there's not a time I can think of when you've made me feel… unfulfilled. The opposite. But... there's no need not to discuss stuff if it comes up, I guess."

"Understood." He thinks of Will's quiet urging for Hannibal to bite him, and closes his eyes. There is discussion, and then there's... that.

"Are you... is there anything you wanted to talk about?" Will asks, gently.

"Not at this moment," Hannibal murmurs. Will is too perceptive, even over the phone. He seems cowed by Hannibal's answer.

"Okay."

Hannibal wants to reach out and touch him so badly. "When did you get to Mobile?"

"Five a.m.?" Will muses.

"You must be exhausted."

"Yes," he murmurs.

"Why don't you sleep a while?"

"Wanted to talk to you first."

"Well, I'm here. Lie down. I won't go until you're ready."

"Just till my room service comes," Will mumbles.

"Of course."

Will just breathes for a minute. Hannibal listens to him shifting and settling. Eventually, he sighs.

"Better, my dear?"

"Yeah. The bed feels like shit though." Will shifts a bit more. "Tell me what you're doing?"

"Sitting in my car," Hannibal smiles.

Will hums along. "Are you home?"

"Almost."

"Good."

Hannibal smiles. "It's a beautiful evening. The sky is darkening here, at the moment. Can you see out of the windows?"

"Curtains are closed," he replies softly. "There is a horrible canvas print of a boat on the wall, so that's something I guess."

"Are you familiar with the concept of a memory palace?"

"Heard of it. Got a pretty good memory."

"Nights such as tonight might be improved with one."

"To be honest, my most vivid memories are... crime scenes. I don't really want to carry those around with me at the best of times."

Hannibal suppresses a sigh. "That is why you build new rooms. Beautiful ones, to be a haven for you."

"I feel the edges of your psychology degree, Doctor." Will hums. "Besides, I haven't much to furnish these rooms with."

"You can't say such a thing and not make me want to assist in that endeavor."

"All part of my plan, Doctor."

"Clever boy."

Will makes a noise that Hannibal thinks might be unconscious: a pleased little sub-vocalization. Hannibal commits it to his own memory. Will likes to be praised even if he'd never admit it. Hannibal wants badly to praise him.

"My dear," Will mumbles, "s'cute."

"It is different in Lithuanian," Hannibal says softly.

"Can I hear it?"

Hannibal obligingly repeats it. "Not so cute," he says.

"I like it, almost as much as I like you saying cute."

Hannibal laughs. He likes Will like this, sleepy and with his inhibitions lowered by no eye contact and mini-bar alcohol. "Don't become accustomed to it."

"Mm, I rarely do."

That makes Hannibal want to say it constantly. He pulls up at home and gets out of the car, still mulling over the impulse to go find Will in whatever grotty little hotel he's in and show him exactly how he makes him feel.

It takes a minute for Will to murmur groggily, "You're home?"

"Yes, Will. Just now."

"My food isn't here yet," he says softly.

"Then I will entertain you a while longer, if you're too stubborn to sleep."

Will makes another small, pleased noise. "That sounds promising."

"As you like, my dear."

Will sighs. "What're you doing now?"

"Walking inside. Hanging up my coat."

Will chuckles. "Lint roller at the ready."

"Now, Detective, is that polite?" Hannibal chides fondly.

"I'm very sorry, Doctor."

"I sense you're not."

"I love that you hate mess. Makes me wonder what the hell you see in me."

"An exceptionally organized mind. And... potential."

"Potential. Sounds ominous."

"Only if you fear change."

"I think we already covered that. I'm more afraid I won't change."

"We'll work on that," Hannibal says lightly, not wanting to wind Will up at this point.

"All right." Will sighs. They're quiet for another moment, until Hannibal hears a faint knock. "Oh, I better go. Don't want it to be cold as well as disgusting."

"Sleep well, Will," Hannibal murmurs.

Will makes a noise that suggests it unlikely. "Text me if you're up later?"

"Of course," Hannibal says soothingly.

"Okay, have a good evening."

Hannibal says goodbye, and hangs up, looking around his kitchen at a bit of loose ends. He potters a bit, starting idle preparation for his own dinner, mind still following Will. It concerns him, that he's both more and less fragile than he appears. Easing him out of the stasis he fears so much is going to take time.

Hannibal finishes prepping his pastry crust, puts it in the oven, and switches to chopping mushrooms. When his quiche is baking, he heads down to the basement for supplies. Daniels' card will merely replace another he's been carrying around, and it's time to put his plans into action.

Sufficiently prepared, he eats, and then changes and leaves. The dark has totally fallen, and the air is still and quiet on the street. He looks around before heading to his car. This is a rhythm now, like any other routine, and he intends to allow himself to enjoy the music of it.

*

He's checking his phone between patient consults when he gets a text from Will letting him know he's back in New Orleans. It's only early afternoon, and Will probably went straight to the station. Hannibal looks at the time, debating his own patience. Then he looks at the bookcase behind him holding his kettle and French press.

If he'd been better prepared- and next time he will be- he'd have made pastries. He settles for picking some up from the bakery they visited some weeks ago after he brews and decants the coffee into travel mugs. Then he drives to the police station and goes to the front desk.

The receptionist gives him a curious onceover before she calls up to Will's department. She confers for a moment- Hannibal notes with amusement the little disbelieving "he's what?" that bleeds out the receiver- and then nods him through.

"Third floor."

Hannibal tries to hide his smirk as he rides the elevator up. No need to antagonize an under-caffeinated Will. Will, who's waiting for him in the corridor, deliciously disheveled with his curls askew and his shirt rumpled from his go-bag. He looks confused, but also vaguely pleased.

"Couldn't wait until dinner?" he says, somewhat more accusatorially than he probably intended.

"Should I have?" He holds out a coffee mug.

Will's expression goes blank for a moment, like he's not sure what to do with his face- or to stifle whatever it wants to do. He takes the coffee slowly, as if it's fragile. "No. No, of course not. Come to my office."

"Thank you, Will." He's delighted, both by the opportunity and by the reaction.

The office is small but neat, the more grotesque of the photos on the walls censored with yellow sticky notes- though Hannibal suspects it's more for visitors than Will himself, who seems to be conscious of the smear of bloody imagery laid out on his desk. He cleans it up a little as he pulls up a chair for Hannibal. "Coffee," he murmurs.

"And pastries," Hannibal adds pleasantly, offering the bag.

He takes the bag, still looking almost guilty to be doing so. "Thank you... We _are_ still having dinner?" he asks next.

"Unless you're otherwise occupied." Hannibal prods the bag gently. "Eat one, please, you look as though you could use some sugar."

Will looks inside and sighs quietly. "Oh, these look nice." He closes the bag again, dithers, and then leans over to kiss Hannibal firmly. Hannibal finds he needs to catch his breath at the end of it. "I'm really glad to see you," Will murmurs.

"Likewise." Hannibal allows his eyes to close for a moment to savor the taste of his coffee and Will's lips.

Will sits back and finally takes a pastry from the bag, smiling a bit when Hannibal pertly hands him a napkin from his pocket. "Thank you," Will murmurs, taking a bite. Hannibal just watches him for a long time, familiarizing himself with the motions of his jaw as he chews. He finds himself compelled to kiss him again.

"I hope you don't mind my stopping by."

"No," Will says. "No, I don't at all."

"I normally would have called."

Will glances up. "I don't know if that's true, Hannibal." He smiles mischievously.

"I don't know what you're implying."

"Yes you do. You enjoy surprising me too much."

Hannibal tilts his head. "When else have I surprised you?"

"Consistently." Will takes another bite, then another. Hannibal lets the smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He likes Will slightly off balance. He looks slightly stricken when there's a knock at the door. "Uh- come in. Oh, Bev- hi."

Hannibal turns. "Hi," the woman in the doorway says brightly. "You must be Dr. Lecter."

He smells Chanel. "And you must be Beverly." He rises to shake her hand, taking in her pleasant countenance and features.

"Sure am," she says. "Beverly Katz, nice to meet you. Will has told me almost nothing about you, but that's Will."

"Likewise, though I'm coming to understand that's a good thing."

She smiles and glances at Will. "Like a dragon with a hoard," she laughs.

Hannibal looks to Will as well. He's shifting a bit in his seat. He gives Hannibal a hapless, crooked grin.

"Yes," Hannibal agrees to Detective Katz. "Very like a dragon."

"Hannibal brought coffee," Will says, idly.

"I won't ask your secret," Katz says to Hannibal, face earnest. "But I admire your work."

"I have extra, if you'd like some." He brought a thermos in case Will needed a refill.

"Maybe just one cup." She glances back at Will, then accepts the paper cup he hands her. Hannibal glances too. He seems comfortable enough. "Anyway, I just stopped by for that file from Highway Patrol," Katz says.

"And to meet Hannibal," Will murmurs, eyes unfocused.

She laughs. "Busted. Will, I'll go home at six if you do. Doctor, thanks again. Don't be a stranger."

Will hands her the file. "You're not the boss of me." He smiles even so. When she's gone, he gives Hannibal a grin. "Would you have shared if I hadn't said anything?"

"I didn't know if you'd want me making myself familiar with your colleagues."

Will chuckles, eyes still staring into space. "You did show up at the office."

"I wanted to see you." Hannibal shrugs.

Now Will looks at him. "Same." He smiles again. He looks tired and drawn. Hannibal dislikes it. The thought of dinner waiting at home to be cooked is only slightly soothing. "You look pensive, Doctor," Will says, standing and tucking his hands into Hannibal's pockets.

Hannibal leans down and kisses him softly. "Just thinking about our evening."

"I am too. It's making me want to leave now." Will chuckles. He lets himself lean against Hannibal for a moment. Hannibal allows himself to bask in the pleasure. "What time is dinner tonight?" Will asks.

"Seven-thirty, if you'd like time to go home first," Hannibal says politely.

"All right. I'll get a shower." He smiles. And an overnight bag, Hannibal hopes. Will's quiet goes considering. "Is this... is this too much too fast?"

Hannibal feels a slight chill settle over him. Be careful. "Are you asking or telling?"

"Asking. I've never had a very good gauge for appropriate."

"I think it's... appropriate," Hannibal replies.

"You mean you don't want to see me less. That's- that's all I'm asking. I don't want you to think..."

"I think I'm happy to see you as often as possible." Will nods. He doesn't look at Hannibal, but he recognizes the avoidance as shyness. "So... in a few hours, at my house?"

"Yeah, I'll be there." Will gives him another quick kiss, then steps back. "Thank you for the coffee. You can stay if you- y'know, wanna drink some."

"No, I've taken enough of your workday."

"I don't see it that way, but all right." Will smiles down at the floor.

Hannibal kisses his cheek one more time. He can't resist. As he's leaving, he sees Beverly again, and she gives him a salute with her coffee. He nods with a polite smile. She seems perfectly pleasant, really. And she seems to like Will. He's not sure if that's a good thing or not. Good for Will, certainly. Probably not an issue for him, if he can contain himself- which no doubt he can. There's no logical reason to be jealous, after all.

He makes himself get back in his car before he can linger on it any longer, and heads home to start on dinner prep. He's instantly more at ease. The routine is second nature, but the technical novelties of the dish he's making engaging enough to distract him. Sufficiently so, in fact, that he's surprised at the sound of the door.

Rinsing his hands, he goes to let Will in. He's smiling, holding a patisserie box and a bottle of wine.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Hannibal murmurs. Will laughs, stepping in and putting the supplies down while he lets Hannibal take his coat. There's an overnight bag on his shoulder. Hannibal takes that too, setting it on the bottom stair. "Dinner is nearly ready," he murmurs. "If you're perhaps ready for a drink?"

Will nods, looking suddenly exhausted just to have stopped moving. "Yeah- a drink sounds good. Thank you."

"Wine or whiskey?" Hannibal offers.

"Whiskey, please." Will follows Hannibal into the kitchen, moving to the sink to wash his hands in what must be habit. "Something smells good."

"That would be dinner," Hannibal smiles. "Braised kidneys in a mustard sauce."

Will nods, drying his hands and coming to accept his drink from Hannibal, staying close in his space. Like earlier in the office, one of his hands comes to tuck into the pocket of Hannibal's waistcoat. It's a charmingly familiar little gesture. Hannibal accepts the lean of his chin over his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his middle.

"I'm sorry if what I said earlier was- thoughtless," Will says, "about things moving fast."

"It is a valid concern, I think, for most people."

"We're not most people though, are we?"

Hannibal kisses his temple, under a wayward curl. "We are not."

Will sighs. He seems to force himself to back off. "Can I help with dinner at all?"

"The preparations are mostly complete. All you have to do is relax." He steers Will towards a counter stool and pulls plates out of the warmer. Will watches, stoic at first and then slowly growing a small, warm smile while he sips his drink and watches Hannibal.

Hannibal can't resist the opportunity to perform. He plates up impeccably, in the usual style. Will shakes his head fondly when their eyes meet. Hannibal just smiles. "Everything worth doing is worth doing well."

"This isn't just well done, Doctor, it's a masterpiece."

"Thank you, Will. Let's go sit."

Will brings their drinks, sitting beside Hannibal and letting their knees touch under the table when they're both settled. Hannibal doesn't have to force himself to focus on the food, but he allows a split focus. Will dedicates himself to his dinner, doing the same thoughtful frown he had at their first meal as he chews the first bite. Hannibal enjoys simply watching this, as much as the first time. Will's slow, content sigh is just as pleasing.

"Good," he murmurs.

A smile curling at the corners of his mouth, Hannibal bows his chin in thanks. He eats slowly, watching Will savor. His eyes flutter closed as he swallows. It is as close to an inappropriate physical reaction as Hannibal has ever gotten.

"Will," he whispers, struck.

Will glances at him, raising his eyebrows. "Hm?"

Hannibal licks his lips, words swirling over his tongue but not spilling. Words couldn't contain what he's feeling. He reaches out to touch his wrist instead. Will sets his fork down, sensing his distraction.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I apologize. Finish your dinner."

"Don't apologize." Will tilts his head. "Tell me."

"I... cannot." He can't apologize again either.

Will, because he is possibly sharper than anyone Hannibal has ever met, gives him a little, understanding smile. "Something on my face?" he jokes, to relieve some of the stillness.

"Yes, a veritable thicket. Forget your razor in Mobile?"

Will laughs, a genuine one, short and surprised. "It's a little untidier than usual, I'm sorry."

Hannibal wants, more than anything, to shave him. But he thinks the temptation might be too great. He reaches out and cuts his thumbnail gently against Will's cheek, up against the grain of his stubble. Will lets him, eyes falling shut. There's still a hint of bruising around them. Hannibal touches that too for good measure.

Will covers his hand with his own, two points of color rising in his cheeks. "I'll shave in the morning."

"I didn't mean -"

"It's okay, I don't mind. It was just because I was up early the last few days." He smiles, nudging Hannibal's hand with his nose and going back to his dinner. Hannibal follows suit, mentally scolding himself. He's bordering on rude.

Will eats another bite. "This is incredible."

"Dessert and drinks to follow."

"Even better." Will smiles. "And after that?"

Hannibal tilts his chin. "You tell me."

"I missed you," Will reminds him, eyes dark. "And I'm tired."

"Straight to bed, then," Hannibal says, giving Will the acknowledgment he clearly desires.

"Unless you had something else planned."

"Nothing that won't keep until next time."

Will smiles and takes a sip of his wine. He does look tired. "So what did you do last night?"

"Just a quiet evening at home with some medical research."

"Sounds good." Will nods, thoughtful, and then hums. "Beverly wanted me to tell you thanks for the coffee, again. She came right back as soon as you left." He can't help his grin, it seems.

"She is fond of you."

"She's fonder of you, I think."

"Don't be modest, my dear."

"I'm serious, she came to tell me what a catch you are."

"Oh? And do you... agree?"

"I didn't need Beverly to point it out."

Hannibal feels his face wreath in another smile.

"Well, that's reassuring."

Will looks at Hannibal from under his lashes. "Don't tell me you're insecure, Doctor."

Hannibal smiles slightly. "Of course not." Just in unfamiliar territory.

Will takes another bite of his dinner and licks his lips. Hannibal, the heart surgeon, wonders vaguely if anyone has ever had a heart attack from... whatever this feeling is.

"You like watching me eat," Will says, like he can smell his blood stirring.

"Yes," Hannibal says simply.

Will nods. "Is it visually pleasing, or is it the thought that you're feeding me?"

Hannibal smiles. "Yes," he repeats.

"You prepare, I ingest. You alter me from the inside out and witness the act. It's poetic," Will muses.

Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn't know if Will is purposefully ambiguous in his wording. He suspects yes. "Most people develop a desire to nurture those they care about," he says carefully.

"Of course," Will agrees. It also sounds careful. "That's not just what this is, though. Am I right?"

"What do you think the answer is?" Hannibal asks.

Will bites his lip as he thinks. Hannibal waits, eating his own dinner. Enjoying it. "I think you have control issues," Will surmises, teasingly.

Hannibal inclines his head. "Maybe so." He laughs softly. "Are you profiling me, Detective?"

"No more than you have me, I imagine."

"Fair point, Will."

"Occupational hazard," Will offers the excuse they frequently exchange.

"It's more charming when I am thoroughly fond of the profiler."

"Thoroughly, huh?" Will smiles.

"Quite thoroughly."

"Ah, quite thoroughly, that's okay then."

"I'm happy to have met your exacting standards."

"I'm sure it's me that should be saying that."

Hannibal smiles and sips his wine. "Trust me, you are more than sufficiently appropriate."

Will finishes his meal before he answers. "The real question is how inappropriate you'd like me to be."

Hannibal favors him with a warm smile, interest curling in his belly. "Just as inappropriate as you can."

"That's a relief."

"I'm sure I'll think so too." He eyes Will's plate. "Dessert now?"

He watches Will's expression go shrewd. "You tell me."

Hannibal nods once. "Dessert later."

"I'll start the dishes," Will volunteers.

"How thoughtful," Hannibal murmurs. He watches Will rise, taking plates and glasses carefully, movements measured- for Hannibal's interest, it seems. Hannibal loves sensing his little manipulations. Loves even more that they seem designed to please him rather than Will himself. Perhaps Will is getting something out of them as well. Hannibal is... curious about that. It strikes him as more than simple submission; Will is defiant when he wants to be. Hannibal just wants to push him in all sorts of different directions. He thinks Will would let him. It's intoxicating.

He lets him wash up before he beckons him toward the stairs with an incline of his head that makes Will smile. His cheeks are a bit flushed, perhaps from the water. Perhaps not. Hannibal touches his waist as they ascend, gentling. He doesn't particularly want to be gentle. He's still remembering Will yielding under his body in the shower, panting low and urgent and bearing back on his cock. Still, he deserves it, in moments like this. He's tired, and sweet with it.

In Hannibal's bedroom, he turns into him and noses hopefully at his jaw. Hannibal strokes through his hair. The beard is still vexing him slightly- perhaps it's not being able to see his face. He finds himself studying it again.

"Hannibal..." Will smiles.

"Yes? I'm sorry, I -"

"Do you want me to shave?"

Hannibal touches his tongue to his lower lip. "...Yes."

A little flicker of Will's eyes to the peek of his tongue. He contemplates, then goes to grab his bag from the doorway, rummaging out his toiletry bag. "Keep me company?"

Hannibal nods, subduing a swallow. He props himself gracefully against the counter. Will runs the water and rubs some gel into a lather. Hannibal becomes aware of Will watching him in the mirror as he gets his razor out. He doesn't say anything, though, just lifts the blade to his cheek.

Hannibal swallows, and seeing Will pause, knows he's seen. Will lowers the razor, then offers it to him uncertainly. Hannibal takes it solemnly. At least it's not plastic. He comes to stand in front of Will, grabbing the hand towel from the counter and setting it over his shoulder.

He turns them so Will's hips are leaning against the sink, his back to the mirror, so he can reach past him to rinse the blade as necessary. He tilts his chin up gently.

"What gave me away?" he asks.

"Nothing anyone else would see. Just the way you touched me."

Hannibal lets out a slow breath. "Describe it."

"Like you saw a veil and wanted to push it away."

Hannibal considers as he makes the first pass over Will's skin. It's an apt metaphor in and of itself. "It's a lovely veil," he admits, "but I want more."

"You can have what you want. Whatever I've got," Will promises, "you can have it."

Angling the blade to follow the grain of Will's beard, he resists closing his eyes. It's too much. "I wish to possess you. You think you realize what that means."

"But I don't?"

"I don't know," Hannibal tells him, wiping at a bit of stray foam with his towel.

Will nods, eyes on the ceiling as he shapes his next words carefully. "I think you and I are... in a similar situation, and a similar kind of person, and I think we know what we want from one another but we're not sure we'll get it. You seem to be... nervous that I'll start finding you unsavory at some point, but... I haven't so far. I've got a good gauge for these things."

Hannibal allows himself to be moved by the words, even as he sees the black ice surrounding them. Will is silenced by the swipe of the razor over his upper lip while Hannibal finds his response. "I also have a good gauge for these things," he says finally.

"What is your gauge measuring, Doctor?"

"Potential."

"You keep using that word." Will closes his eyes as Hannibal tilts his chin up to shave his jaw.

"It is a dynamic word. It suits my meaning."

"It's evasive. I prefer clarity to platitudes, Doctor."

"Have I not made myself clear?"

Will sighs. "Only by question dodging."

Hannibal runs his fingers down his throat, testing the shave. "Ask me again."

"What kind of potential do you see?"

"To follow no rules but your own."

Will swallows a bit, silent as he absorbs. Hannibal merely studies the bare frame of his jaw. He wipes the last of the foam away, and Will levels him with a look. "You think I'm held back by rules? Are we being broad, or are they self imposed?"

"A bit of both, I would think." He touches two fingers to the pulse point in Will's throat, more just to feel it than anything else. Will's eyes flicker shut. He leans into it, sighing.

"And you're not?" he whispers.

Hannibal cups his cheek, thumb smoothing over the newly bared skin. "In some ways, more than anyone."

"And in others?"

"Much less so."

Will's eyes open, crystal blue and bottomless. Both merciless and tender. "They do say surgeons have God complexes."

Hannibal sighs. The tenderness in him rears like a living thing. He's besotted, and bewildered in turn. "I've heard the same said about police."

Will just hums. He turns and bites gently at the fingers on his cheek. Hannibal's breath stutters. He pinches gently at the swell of his lower lip. "Take what you want," Will says steadily.

Hannibal hauls him in for a kiss. They stumble a bit, bumping up against the other bathroom wall. Will wraps his arms around his neck slowly, sighing.

"Take what you want," he repeats, and Hannibal steers him into the bedroom, hands tight on his hips. He pulls Will's shirt up and off without ceremony, endlessly tempted by the sight of his skin. He's pale and lean, more graceful out of his clothes.

He makes short work of Hannibal's own, and they arrange themselves on the mattress slowly. For a moment, they're just caught up in looking. Hannibal can't stop touching him. Long, slow strokes down his arms and chest, feeling his small tremors.

"Hannibal-" Will stalls himself like he often does.

Hannibal strokes his cheek. "Yes?"

"This is important to me," Will says, quietly. "You're important to me."

Hannibal kisses him. He doesn't know how else to tamp down the knot of emotion inside him. He's not used to this. None of the words he brings to mind are enough- all seem redundant in the face of Will's wary, heavy admittance. He agrees completely.

"What do you want?" Will asks, nosing at him gently.

Hannibal considers. So many things. While he thinks, he lowers his mouth to Will's shoulder and starts sucking a mark into the skin. Will's reactions, both vocal and physical, are gorgeous. A shudder runs through his limbs.

"Hannibal," he breathes, "more."

"How much more?"

"As much as you think I can take."

Oh, Hannibal thinks that is quite a lot. He traces a fingertip over his pulse point, feeling the quiet rush there. He sucks over his collarbone next and Will sighs, arching beneath him. Hannibal keeps his mouth moving. There are too many places he wants to taste. Sternum, over the peak of a nipple, and down to let his tongue press between the notches of his ribs. He lets his teeth graze.

Will keeps his hands moving, too. Over Hannibal's shoulders, up into his hair. He whines softly when Hannibal bites. By the time Hannibal reaches his hips, he's quivering. "Again," he mutters.

"I am not done yet.”

Will sighs, mollified. The next suck mark goes on his tender inner thigh, over the artery. Will gasps again, a little vocalization beneath it. Hannibal moves his mouth an inch and does it again. The breathless little groan that escapes Will is indecently lovely.

He gets one for every overlapping mark he creates. Eventually, Will shifts his hips, needy and impatient in one. Hannibal lowers his head obligingly, only to feel fingers touch his jaw. "Wait."

"What is it?"

"Turn around," Will murmurs. Hannibal watches him, and then nods, standing up first to circumvent ungainliness. "Get lube," Will adds.

Mouth curving softly, Hannibal complies with that order as well. He moves with Will's seeking hands, kneeling over his shoulders.

"You can go back to what you were doing now," Will tells him, trailing gentle fingers up Hannibal's thigh.

"And what will you be doing?"

"The same thing you are."

Hannibal nods, leaning forward slowly. He shivers at the first creeping brush of Will's hands up the back of his thighs. His hands move with purpose. He spreads Hannibal with his hands, and then covers his taint with his mouth.

Hannibal bites back his own noises so he can take the head of Will's cock in his mouth. He tastes incredible, fluid already building from his ministrations. Hannibal takes a moment to simply enjoy, and to rock gently back against Will's lips. His tongue is stroking over his hole in slow sweeps, but he pulls back for a moment to groan into his skin. Hannibal takes the opportunity to swallow down even more of him, tongue swirling around his shaft.

It feels more like gratitude than revenge when Will curls a hand around him and sucks softly at his skin. The sensation of smooth cheeks against his thighs makes him moan. Will's hand tightens around him in turn. He's hoping to find out what he has on that mind of his. Currently, it seems to consist purely of driving Hannibal insane with his tongue. Just when he seems to have settled into a rhythm, he shifts his hands or changes it slightly. Hannibal is panting before he can stop himself. His cock feels hard and heavy, Will's grip less soothing than simply teasing. His other hand is hooked into the junction of Hannibal's hip and thigh, tugging him in gentle rocks, back into the motion of his tongue; the pressing point of it against him. He can feel the lube bottle nestled against his calf, and he's waiting. Wondering.

He doesn't have to wait long before Will fumbles for it. It appears that it is time for Will to change him from the inside out. He gives him a few long, swallowing strokes of his mouth to show he's paying attention.

Will's breath breaks against him. The lube opens with a snap. Hannibal squeezes his hips gently. Will pulls away to coat his fingers; lets them tease slowly down to where Hannibal is already wet from his mouth. It's easy enough to relax and let him push one inside. He's as gentle as Hannibal would expect, pumping slowly at his cock, murmuring soft words of encouragement into his thigh.

"Take what you want," he's saying, "can go both ways."

Hannibal sighs, drawing off him, letting his lips smear against his skin. "And it does. More, Will."

He gives it him, stroking in careful and deep with two. Hannibal savors the stretch. More so Will's tentative licks while he fucks him gently. Hannibal wonders what it would take to get him to let go. He sucks over the head of Will's cock again, thinking.

Will's hips flex. A thin groan bleeds out between them and his wrist presses harder. Hannibal can feel his teeth setting against his tender inner thigh. He makes an encouraging noise in his throat. Will makes a low noise and gently bites while his fingers stroke faster. Hannibal feels his back bow, trying to get closer. His breaths become a touch less smooth as Will picks up a fluid rhythm. He has to pull off Will's cock to pant.

"That's it," Will rumbles. "That's what you like." He sounds satisfied.

Hannibal turns his face against his hip and allows himself a wet groan, his fingers curling around the base of Will's cock slowly. "I would like to see you now," he tells Will softly.

"I don't know, I'm kind of enjoying seeing you like this." He punctuates it with a deep, slick rock of his wrist that makes Hannibal grunt despite himself. Of course he is. He has a sadistic streak, like a streak of icy silver through the dark richness of his personality.

"As you like, Will," Hannibal murmurs, "though I can think of an arrangement that frees up your hands."

Will crooks his fingers deliberately. "Do tell." It makes Hannibal's breath come short.

"Stay where you are," he orders softly, sitting up.

Will makes a reluctant noise but releases him. Hannibal repositions himself to straddle Will's hips while facing him. Will's expression goes pleased and warm, hands lingering on Hannibal's chest for a moment. "Oh, hi."

"Hello, Will." Hannibal can't look away from his swollen lips.

Will doesn't make him wait, sitting up to touch his hair, kissing him slowly but with heat. Hannibal reaches for the lube by feel, drips some over Will's cock. He strokes to spread it, swallowing Will's soft moan.

Will's hands when he shifts are eager to line them up. Hannibal takes him in with a slow, smooth arch of his hips, savoring the feeling of being invaded by him; stretched open. Aware of every inch where they touch. He wants to siphon off the feeling for later; keep it in a secret place. Will kisses him, needy and open mouthed, and Hannibal devours the noise of desire he makes. Each moment of reaction is like nourishment.

He rolls his hips and Will feeds him adoration in moans and soft murmurs of his name. It's as fulfilled as Hannibal has ever felt outside of killing and eating. He touches Will's throat to feel the buzz of his own name there. Will's hands guide the roll of his hips faster, until they're both panting. He resists closing his eyes, watching Will's face instead.

He's gorgeous like this, young with the fresh shave, loose limbed and fluid and deliciously intent. Hannibal does feel distinctly in control, still. He's not sure he could handle feeling any less so, yet. Will's mouth crawling across his chest is a distraction in that direction, however. He curls a hand around Hannibal, stroking slow and tight. He's quick to match his own rhythm, and it sings in Hannibal's pulse as well. He groans when Will's hips jolt faster, lips pulling back in a grimace of concentration. Will presses his face into Hannibal's neck.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he breathes, like he can't believe he's allowed to feel it.

Hannibal hums and keeps his hips moving. Sensation is building, smoke-hot and buzzing like electricity. Their mouths find one another time and time again, deep and urgent. Will groans into his mouth and Hannibal winds fingers into his hair. He's cresting on a wave of sensation, ready to tip over at the right touch.

All of Will's touches are the right touches. He's thoroughly hypnotized by him. "Hannibal," Will moans softly, head tipping back a bit.

"It's all right," Hannibal pants, "let me see." He fixes his eyes on Will's.

"I want- I want to see you first.”

"Of course," Hannibal wraps a hand over Will's. He squeezes his fingers tighter, rolls his hips to thrust up into them. Will gasps and pulls him a fraction faster, groaning under his breath. Hannibal kisses his jaw. "Almost," he whispers. He presses his lips against the pulse point there and lets himself feel it. Will fucks him and strokes him, pants against his temple until the dam inside Hannibal breaks. The sound he makes is soft but ragged, something he can't quite hold back. He comes so hard that stripes of come hit Will's chest, making him gasp and jolt.

"Fuck-" His hips jerk, making Hannibal grit his teeth. Will immediately soothes him with his hands. "S-sorry-"

"Keep going," Hannibal urges, shaking it off. "I want it inside me."

Will swears again, clutching. It's easier to work it out of him like this, with his own needs seen to. Hannibal thinks he could get used to watching Will's eyelashes flutter as Hannibal pulls the orgasm out of him with his body. His cheeks flush and his mouth drops open. Hannibal feels it, deep heat and the shaky surge of his hips.

Will's sound isn't soft at all, it's loud and somehow shocked. He turns his face gratefully into Hannibal's chest when he pulls him close, clutching at his back as the shakes slow. Hannibal kisses his brows and the soft skin under his eyes.

"Feel so close," Will says weakly, a hand creeping up to cover his heart.

"Yes," Hannibal whispers. Will takes a shuddering breath, and then another, like he's forcing down what he's feeling. Hannibal wraps a hand around the side of his neck, "tell me." He watches Will sigh and lean into it.

"I feel obsessed. Like- like this is all I want to think about, every second of every day. Like you've invaded my mind." He rubs his eyes. "I'm not... I'm not usually like this."

"I think you should let yourself feel it," Hannibal says gently. Will nods, a juddering, uncertain motion. Hannibal catches his lips in a kiss. "You can't believe your feelings unrequited, so I assume the discomfort is merely in the novelty." He understands completely.

Will sighs and nods. Hannibal gives him another kiss. He lifts off him carefully, and Will lets him arrange them both, still damp and sticky in places. Hannibal enjoys the feeling of unfamiliar aches.

"Still up for dessert?" Hannibal asks, eventually.

Will sounds half asleep, but he laughs. "Your desserts? Yes."

"Come, then."

They take it in turns to clean up in the en suite before heading downstairs. Hannibal serves them both dessert and a glass of port. He feels flushed with residual heat when Will curls into his side on the sofa. They eat their dessert and listen to the night noises coming through the open windows.

Eventually, Will sighs and sets his bowl down, curling his free arm across Hannibal's stomach. He rubs gentle circles into the skin. Hannibal holds him close and sighs. He's never felt so protective. He'd do anything for Will, he thinks. He'd be anything. Whatever Will needs from him.

He feels displaced by the knowledge, like he's just climbed out of water after a long swim and remembered the effects of gravity. Like he's returned to a different place than he left.

He looks down and realizes, between one breath and another, that Will has fallen asleep. He gently plucks the glass from his hand before it spills, heart fit to burst. He strokes through Will's hair, and tries to learn the map of the new terrain inside himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Will continues to spend several nights a week at Hannibal's home, joining him for late dinners or sometimes just for bed, allowing himself to be coaxed out running again several times over the next weeks. Sometimes he brings stacks of files with him. Usually he just frowns down at them and scratches notes onto a legal pad. Amongst the photos and victim profiles, Hannibal occasionally spots familiar names and, in some cases, familiar limbs.

Hannibal likes to see Will getting more comfortable in his space; spreading himself out on Hannibal's patio furniture when the kitchen door is open, chewing his pen absently as he makes circles in the forest of his mind. Despite the heaviness of the work, he seems relaxed enough, at first. But it doesn't last. His shoulders start to hunch and his hair is perpetually awry from clenching fingers.

 One night, Hannibal receives a text at the hospital from Will- not the usual shy _Call me when you're free?_ but a more frantic note beneath it.

_Don't think I'll be good company tonight. Scene was bad. Really bad. Rain check?_

_If you wish. But I am concerned about you._

No reply. Hannibal waits, at first with patience, and then without. He calls Will's phone, and finds it cutting straight to voicemail. He's grabbing his keys before he even is conscious of making a decision.

 He's here past his shift anyway, just tidying up. He tears out of the parking lot, cutting through the warm night with his headlights, vision tunneled with his fear.

He goes to Will's tiny shotgun cottage, suffused with dread. There are no lights on, but Will's beat-up Jeep is in the driveway. Hannibal parks behind it and walks to the door. He does take a moment to peek in the front window. Nothing but more files on the coffee table; the detritus of a life only half lived within these walls. Without much conscious acknowledgement of the fact, Hannibal resolves to get Will to bring some things to his place as he knocks gingerly on the door.

There's no response from inside, not even when he knocks more aggressively. Hannibal moves around the building until he finds the back door; disengages the lock with a credit card and goes inside. "Will," he calls softly.

He listens, and finally becomes aware of the sound of running water. His chest is still filled with an icy heaviness. He walks toward the bathroom, and finds the shower on despite the lights being off.

"Will," he calls again.

There's a jolt from within the shower, and an uncertain silence.

"Are you real?" he hears finally, faint behind the water.

That makes him step forward, fingers going for the light before he stops himself. Instead he reaches for the shower curtain, easing it back. "I'm real," he says, but Will's head doesn't turn in his direction. He's staring at the bottom of the shower; the dark water swirling there. "Are you injured?”

Will shakes his head slowly.

"Whose blood is it?"

"Victim's."

Not catatonic, but definitely dissociative. Hannibal's hands clench. Fresh from a crime scene, and nobody noticed the state he was in. He's aware of Will's responsibility to tell people if he's struggling, but for whatever reason, he can't find it in himself to remember it now.

"Will, you're in shock," he tells him steadily, "I need you to look at me, if you can." It's so dark in the tiny room that the only way he can tell Will has obeyed is the tiny twin reflective glints of eyes. "How long have you been in here, Will?"

"Cold," Will murmurs, and Hannibal clenches his jaw and reaches out to test the water: frigid. Then he turns the knob off with a decisive snap. He grabs a towel, wrapping it around Will and guiding him briskly out of the shower, to the bedroom. Will stands like a statue where Hannibal leaves him while he gets an extra blanket for the bed; clean sheets. It only takes minutes to change it but the entire process feels stretched by Will's strangeness. He doesn't even dry himself off, and when Hannibal inspects him in a lighted room he can see the crusty blood that he hasn't managed to wash off his arms.

He doesn't entirely hate the sight of it, but the sight of Will vacant-eyed and unresponsive extinguishes his small pleasure in it. He goes and gets a warm cloth from the bathroom and washes him clean. Finally, Will seems to focus, watching Hannibal's movements with a crease between his brows.

"Why... are you here?"

"You sent me a somewhat alarming text cancelling our dinner plans. I was concerned."

"I... did?" Will pauses. "It wasn't -" The way he stops talking says he doesn't really remember what he said. Hannibal cups his cheeks, very slowly, and feels somewhat relieved when Will closes his eyes and leans in rather than flinching away.

"Tell me what happened, Will." He holds him for a moment before going to the dresser and searching out sweats for him to put on.

Will obediently steps into them when urged, but his eyes go distant again. "He killed a kid. He left us a kid, all cut up."

"The same killer, from the cemetery, and Mobile? Has it been the same one all along?"

"I was close to getting distracted by the ones they've pulled from the swamps, but these others... I can't explain it, but - they're dogmatic, and brutal, and - and there's... there's this... _need_ to eviscerate them. To make them suffer in every way. The others are just... disposal."

Hannibal urges him gently into bed, piling blankets on. He still feels dangerously chilled, where he normally runs hot. Hannibal himself feels stiff and half-frozen. "And today? Is it worse because it was a child?"

Will closes his eyes and shakes his head sharply. "Don't, I don't want to think about it."

Hannibal looks away, sees the dirtied cloth draped over Will's laundry basket. Will knows better than to contaminate a crime scene. "Where did the blood come from, Will?"

He looks at Hannibal, eyes weary. "She wasn't dead when we got there."

They're getting close to this killer, then. Too close for Hannibal's peace of mind. "And you found her."

Will nods, squeezing his eyes shut. "Hannibal, please."

"Okay. All right." He smooths a hand through his hair, pausing when Will pulls his hand over his eyes and holds it there. All right, he thinks again. He stays there until Will's hands stop shaking. "Can you eat?" he asks him.

Will shakes his head jerkily.

"May I stay with you?" Hannibal murmurs. He shifts closer, soothing a hand down his side.

"I didn't want you to see this," Will says a bit reproachfully.

"And yet, here I am."

Will is going to have words for him when he realizes Hannibal broke in, he thinks. And Hannibal will have words for Will about safety. But now is not the appropriate time.

Will brings his palm down to his mouth and kisses the heel. "I'm sorry I worried you. I'm sorry I'm still worrying you."

"Never apologize for making me feel something," Hannibal says, for once entirely earnest. Will holds his hand against his chest and watches him. His brow furrows again. Hannibal waits to see if he has something else to say.

"Thank you.”

Hannibal pauses. "May I lie down with you?" At Will's nod, he carefully removes his shoes and jacket and finds a space where they can still touch. "We talked about this; about me taking care of you."

"I- I didn't think you should have to," Will whispers.

Hannibal cups his cheek again. "Would you take care of me if I needed it?"

"Of course I would."

"Then do not decide what I have to do."

Will frowns again. Hannibal realizes his mistake immediately. Will closes his eyes and rubs his eyes. "I'm too tired to talk about this. Let's not. I'm glad you're here."

"Go to sleep," Hannibal says gently. If he had known what he was walking into, he might have brought sedatives.

"I don't know if I can, yet. Dreams..."

"I'll wake you if you have a nightmare."

"I don't think I can yet," Will repeats, patiently though. He's always patient. "Will you... can we just talk? About something else?"

"Of course." He feels a faint prickle of surprise as Will tucks his head into Hannibal's shoulder, touching his ribs.

"What were you going to make for dinner? Will it keep?"

"Failing some sort of power outage, I believe it will be just as delicious prepared tomorrow. Shall I describe the menu?"

"Yeah." Will pats his side fondly.

"Veal chops with a _Bonne Femme_ sauce," Hannibal says. " _A la Galatoire's_ , since I know you prefer a quiet dinner at home. Mixed seasonal roasted vegetables. Fig tartlets with _crème fraiche_."

"I understood about half of that, but even the other half sounds amazing."

Hannibal smiles indulgently. "You will enjoy it, I selected it with you in mind. But do you not speak French?" he asks idly.

"Who, me?" Will laughs softly. "Creole French isn't the same. I like listening to it, though." He hums then, scratching his stomach. "Pretty girl sauce? Should I be concerned or flattered that's what I bring to mind?"

"It's a mushroom sauce, you terror," Hannibal tells him. "And now that your beard is regrowing..." he swipes a finger against Will's cheek.

"I promise to let you get rid of it again," Will mumbles, managing to crack a smile, finally.

"And I'll speak French to you, if you like."

"Yeah, please. Will you teach me?"

" _Si tu veux_."

The smile grows a fraction. "I understood that."

"Then I'm sure you'll do just fine." Hannibal leans in for a kiss, manages to keep it gentle. Will strokes down his side slowly. He's still not himself; still not fully here. Hannibal can empathize all too well with part of his mind being stuck with the girl who died in his arms. He doesn't like to see Will lost. Not like this. He strokes his hair again slowly. He wants to know what's hurting him- if it's the horror, or the other thing he has: the lack of it. Hannibal is not supposed to know about that, not really.

"Tell me something else," Will whispers.

Hannibal sighs and tells him about the surgery he's researching. It's easy to keep murmuring, keeping his voice steady, until Will starts to unwind against him. He's only regretful that he needs to.

"Will," he says eventually, "Can you try to tell me what happened, in the morning?"

He gets a hum he thinks is agreement. Satisfied for now, he kisses Will's forehead gently. As soon as he's certain Will's asleep, he gets up to inspect his kitchen for something to prepare for later.

Will doesn't have much- some eggs and bread and some pasta- and shrimp in the freezer, which Hannibal elects to erase from his mind. Frozen shrimp are a travesty against protein. When he finally finds a few slices of ham to dice up, Hannibal sighs and starts putting together an egg casserole. He could wait until Will is up; suggest they go to his place- but he senses Will's need to be alone is associative: bad thoughts deserve a bad place. Hannibal doesn't want his home to become that place.

On the other hand, he hates the thought of Will living in this bleak little apartment. He looks around, listening to the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, and wonders if Will would ever consider leaving this place for good. He understands that it is too soon to even suggest it. His impatience makes it hard to remember. His need makes it painful.

He paces until dinner is ready, and then hovers outside Will's room, hesitating at the sound of rushed breaths. He steps quietly inside, eyes going immediately to the bed. Will, mostly still, just starting to dream. Hannibal puts a hand on his side to soothe him.

"Will," he breathes. "Wake now." He squeezes gently, and Will stirs. When he looks up at Hannibal, the fear slides away.

"You're still here."

"Of course I am. I made dinner."

"I can smell it, I think." He raises an eyebrow. "No pretty girl sauce?" Must be feeling better.

"I will eat it all myself," Hannibal threatens.

"Please, if it's from my fridge chances are you'll struggle to make yourself eat any of it."

Hannibal does not argue the general sentiment. Will's smile grows warm. He twines their fingers lazily.

"Do I have to get out of bed?"

"Yes," Hannibal says firmly.

Looking put-upon, Will eases out of bed and lingers for a moment, looking for a shirt. Hannibal refrains from comment. Manners are manners, after all. Will pulls on a sweater and rubs his face as he follows Hannibal to the kitchen.

Hannibal has set his little kitchen table. It makes Will smile. "Wow, I don't think I knew I had placemats," he muses, sitting down slowly.

"Clearly," Hannibal replies. Will flashes him that grin, the one Hannibal thinks makes him look lit up from within. He dishes him up some food and tries not to openly moon. It's really quite unbecoming.

"Thank you," Will says, waiting for Hannibal before he starts to eat. He has good manners for all that he's so awkward. He smiles at the first mouthful. "How do you make eggs and ham this delicious? I don't understand."

"Seasoning, and patience," Hannibal answers. Quite a lot of patience.

Will glances at him like he knows. The atmosphere is suddenly a bit more charged. "Heard of that. Tried it once. Not a fan."

"Is that so?" Hannibal keeps eating. The casserole is really rather good, except he wishes he'd had better quality cheese. And bread. And - Will is staring at him. He looks beautiful even in the unflattering light, bruises finally gone and sleep putting some color back in his cheeks. His eyes still have shadowed depths, though, and that seems unlikely to fade.

That's okay. Hannibal will take him back to bed in a while; he has a book and his journal with him if he's not ready to sleep himself. He nudges Will out of the kitchen when he tries to start cleaning up. "It will need to soak, go back to bed."

He listens for once. Hannibal quickly washes their plates and then follows. Will is in the bathroom brushing his teeth. When he comes out, he smells of cinnamon and mint when he kisses Hannibal. "Do you need anything? Got a go-bag?"

"Yes, I'll go get it." As he does so, he hears the sound of dogs awoken next door- either by his movement or that of something in the bushes. Through the window, he sees Will in the kitchen again, emptying what looks like kibble into a bowl. He brings it out as Hannibal locks up.

"I couldn't eat another thing, Will," he quips idly.

Will laughs and goes over to the fence, sliding the bowl under a high spot. Two noses poke through and he pets them before turning and going back inside. Hannibal tilts his head, then follows.

"Why are you feeding your neighbors' dogs?"

"They only have a little. The rest is for a stray I've seen around a few times."

"I see," Hannibal says solemnly.

Will glances at him as they go back to his room. "I can't tell what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking about how endearing you are."

"That sounds... not entirely complimentary."

"It certainly isn't intended to be otherwise." Hannibal holds out a hand to beckon Will closer.

"Sounds a little boring though," Will says, going.

"You are anything but, my dear." He savors the feel of Will's skin under his thumb as he wraps a hand around his wrist.

Will gives him a tired, crooked little smile. "Stuff like this to keep you on your toes."

"I'm adaptable," Hannibal murmurs, rubbing his thumb rhythmically against Will's veins.

"You certainly are." Will smiles. He lets Hannibal pull him closer and leans into him when Hannibal winds an arm around his waist. "I'm... I'm really glad you're here."

"Never hesitate to ask."

"I know, I just. My plan was to drink until it stopped."

"Isn't this better?"

"Of course it is." Will noses at him.

Hannibal lets himself be kissed. Will keeps it light, and then pulls back to lead him back to his bed. They undress one another slowly. Hannibal gets the lights, and finds himself face to face with the swarming dark until Will winds around him. His lips find all the chinks in Hannibal's armor - the soft underside of his chin, the hollow of his throat, behind his ear. His hands travel over Hannibal's skin in turn, a slow mapping of his most vulnerable parts. He seems to need to touch, so Hannibal stays still for it.

Will doesn't seem to have an agenda. He eventually kisses Hannibal's shoulder and settles down with a sigh. Hannibal leans over and kisses his forehead. "Sleep, Will."

"Yeah. You too," Will murmurs.

He tries, and in the end finds it easy.

*

It's pre-dawn when Hannibal feels Will get up, breaths rushed as if he's awoken from a mental race. Still half-asleep himself, he turns over and rubs his hand over his face. He listens for a minute, running water and bathroom sounds, and then Will padding through to the kitchen. Soon, he smells coffee.

Will comes back to bed with a cafetière and two mugs. He clocks Hannibal is awake and holds the cups up in silent offering.

"Lovely boy," Hannibal murmurs.

Will smiles and pours some coffee. "Sorry I woke you."

"No regrets on my part."

Will smiles. He looks like he's barely slept. When he gets back into bed with his own coffee, Hannibal shifts close, humming agreeably when Will tucks himself against his side. He's sorry to see Will still looking so tired.

"Given up on sleep completely?"

"For now," Will sighs. "I need to go in to the office soon."

Hannibal frowns at that. Back into the case straight off, then. "I see."

"You don't like that.”

"I think, judging from the state you were in last night, it'd be wise to consider a day off."

"I shouldn't," Will twitches a little.

"Perhaps just call your Captain, and explain. I don't think he'd see it as unwarranted, given your history." Hannibal fixes him with a stern expression and waits.

Will rubs the back of his neck. "Are you off today?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, unless there is an emergency."

That seems to tip him a bit. "I'll see what Thibodeau says."

Hannibal goes to use Will's shower while he makes his phone calls. The bathroom is tiny and bleak but scrupulously clean. When he emerges, Will is sitting with his laptop open, frowning at the screen. Hannibal moves to refill his coffee cup.

"I had a message from the Captain saying there's nothing I can do and to take the day on call- I think everyone who was there last night was pretty shaken up."

Hannibal does not say "I told you so," as that would be terribly rude. Will glances at him over the rim of his glasses. He feels seen.

"What else would you recommend for today, Doctor?"

Hannibal hums. "You're welcome to come home with me. And I was considering offering you a massage, if you're interested."

Will's face colors unexpectedly. He takes a few moments to finish stuttering before he takes a mouthful of coffee to subdue himself. Fascinated, Hannibal waits to see if he'll answer.

"You have to know that as soon as you touch me, my body makes it inappropriate. It'll be the same with a massage."

Hannibal represses a smile. "It would still be therapeutic regardless of what you're thinking about."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Will snorts a bit. "Embarrassing is the word I'd choose."

"I'd hope that you'd never find an honest reaction to me embarrassing." Hannibal touches his hair gently.

Will sighs, leaning into it. "I get the feeling you'd only be pleased, anyway."

"Of course I would be."

Will noses at him. "Thanks."

Hannibal pulls him back to see his wry smile, then kisses it. Will's hand is still warm from his coffee cup when he touches Hannibal's jaw.

"You can do whatever you like to me," he says.

Hannibal barely restrains the noise that the words summon. Will has no idea. None. It pains him like a deep wound, newly scarred. Hannibal kisses him again, sighing when Will grips him tighter. Will is captivating in his pain and terror. He is sublime in his desperation. He is irresistible in his desire.

"A whole day off together," Will mumbles, "what shall we do with ourselves?"

"That is a very unsubtle hint, Detective."

"Subtlety is your area of expertise."

"Indeed." Hannibal gently slides the laptop off of his lap and pulls him closer. It makes Will smile, wry and soft.

"Very subtle."

Hannibal scents his hair. "Come home with me now," he suggests quietly.

Will chuckles a bit. "All right. I need a shower."

"You could also wait until after the massage," Hannibal replies.

"I probably smell like a gym sock."

He does not, but Hannibal lets him go. "As you like."

"I'll be five minutes," Will promises, scooting out of bed.

Hannibal gets up and begins idly straightening in the kitchen while he waits. He's pleased to see Will emerge after ten minutes or so with a packed bag. "Let's take my car," Hannibal says, "I can drop you off whenever you need."

Will nods. "That's fine, Hannibal."

*

When they get back to the house, Hannibal is pleased to see Will smiling at the sight of the garden, like it holds fond memories for him. Hannibal makes tea when they're inside, with Will hovering nearby. He guides him to two cushioned chairs on the porch.

Will drinks some of his tea, and eventually speaks. "I used to imagine what it'd be like to kill someone. Going to crime scenes- I understood, I saw the motive, I saw the pictures, and the feeling behind it all, but I never knew how it felt to watch someone die. Even the guy I shot- Jesus, I didn't see it. I hit him from ten feet away and he went down like meat."

Hannibal doesn't speak to reply right away. Will doesn't seem finished. He sips his tea first, hugging it to his chest with both hands like he's chilled even in the balmy morning air.

"Last night, that girl. It was like the last puzzle piece. She was so afraid."

"And what did that tell you?"

"It made me... see. How easy it must seem, to wield that power. To make those decisions. Everything else falls away."

"Like God, ultimate power and infinite capacity for cruelty."

"It's not even cruelty... it's essential bloodletting." Will rubs his eyes.

"Is that your profile talking?" Will sighs and slowly nods. "How will you catch him?" Hannibal asks softly.

"I don't know." Will rubs his eyes. "There's something close about him. He travels but not far. Something links all the victims and their knowing him."

"You'll find it," Hannibal says. And _you'll kill him for it_ , he thinks.

Will sighs again, a muscle in his jaw working with tension. Hannibal skims a thumb over it. Will leans into the contact with a sigh.

"Massage," Hannibal says quietly.

It's still amusing, the way Will's ears turn pink under his hair. They go inside together, fingers lacing. Will stands and watches with wide eyes as Hannibal prepares his bed with a thick towel and a bottle of oil. "You don't do anything by halves, do you?"

"What would be the point?"

He gestures for Will to undress. He himself changes into a soft cotton shirt. Will stands, shoulders caved, and waits. He's obviously uncomfortable. It's endearing that he's anticipating it to be worth it.

"Lie down, my dear. Please."

Will does, a little stiffly. Hannibal kneels beside him and helps him settle, running soft hands over his limbs. It's gratifying to see him resist at first, and then slowly relax. He’s delicious like this, bare and yielding and temptation personified. His trust is like a physical thing between them.

Hannibal wants to map the shape of it like a constellation; where it starts and how far into darkness it stretches. How far it will stretch before it snaps. Musing on the thought, Hannibal starts to work his hands in slow motions over Will's shoulders, smiling at the way he holds his breath. He's so warm. Almost too warm.

"Relax," Hannibal tells him, sitting back to uncap some oil, working it into his hands to warm it before he cups Will's shoulder blades and circles his thumbs. Will groans softly as he digs in. Hannibal fights his smile. "Good?"

"Yes," Will sighs.

"You're not used to being touched," Hannibal observes, "even now."

Will sighs again. "No, but I like it."

"Reassuring."

"Hannibal," Will murmurs.

"Yes?" He kneads more firmly, following the lines of Will's spine; the definition of his trapezius muscles.

"I like it. I like you." Hannibal sees him lick his lips, open his mouth again, then decide against it.

"Likewise, Will.” He keeps massaging slowly. Will shifts only enough to draw a pillow under his chin, folding his arms around it and sighing. "Inappropriate thoughts staying at bay?" Hannibal asks curiously.

"Mm, more or less."

Hannibal moves down his spine. The noise Will makes seems involuntary, along with the arch of his hips. Hannibal rolls his knuckles down either side of his spine, to knead softly at the base. "You're holding a lot of tension in your lumbar spine," he comments idly. Will snorts.

"You think?" Hannibal pinches his waist and works his thumbs until Will whines. "Yes," he groans. More vocal than expected. Hannibal does it again, higher up. This time Will makes a high, lost noise.

"All right?" He watches Will's hips move again. He's so pretty like this, all helpless noises and long breaths. Biting back a smile, he moves his hands to Will's thigh.

“Mm.” He sighs softly, turning his face against the pillow, shoulders coiled still. He whimpers when Hannibal's fingers stray into the cleft between his thighs. "Hannibal..." he arches helplessly.

Hannibal hums and switches to his other thigh. It's amusing, how quiet Will goes. He's probably not used to being teased. Letting his thumbs run against the crease where thigh meets cheek, Hannibal leans to kiss the centre of his back gently. Then he works his hands down to Will's calves - also tense, but well-shaped and lovely.

Will sighs again, this time without frustration. His shoulders are loosening again. Hannibal bends Will's leg, nuzzles against his ankle bone. That makes him chuckle a little.

"Turn over.”

Will only hesitates a moment before he does as he's bid. He's flushed and a bit glassy-eyed. Half hard, looking a little guilty despite the wry smile.

_We can do better,_ Hannibal thinks with amusement.

"What are you grinning at?" Will mumbles, reaching for him.

Hannibal evades and goes back to rubbing his thighs. Will bites his lip, hands nervously resituating to the sheets.

"Does it still feel good, my dear?"

"Yeah- it- it feels fine."

"Just fine?"

"Hannibal," Will's ears are turning red again.

Hannibal watches his cock plump up and begin to glisten at the tip. He strokes the insides of his thighs with firm but careful touches. The skin there is begging for the impression of teeth. Hannibal bends low and smiles at Will's little whine as he noses into the pale stretch.

First, he traces the artery with the tip of his tongue. Will's thighs part, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Hannibal sucks gently at his skin. Will's eyes on him, as ever, feels like a special occasion. He's always shocked at how desperate he can allow himself to become. Desperate enough to let his teeth pinch; to watch Will draw a shaky breath. Too gorgeous for words, the sight of Will falling apart.

"Hannibal," his breathing is soft, touching his cheek.

"Do you want my mouth?"

"I want you to do what you want to do with your mouth." Hannibal shudders. He hesitates, until Will touches his hair and sighs. "It's okay. I want you to."

He sucks at the skin again, not as gently. Will shivers.

"As hard as you want.”

Hannibal has to work up to it, he thinks. For it to be safe for Will. He just sucks harder, enough to break capillaries.

Will chokes on a whine. Hannibal wonders if he's thinking of his crime scenes; assault bites. He wonders if it will cause a connection to jump in that brilliant mind. Still musing, he overlaps another suck mark or two with the first.

Will touches his hair with a sigh. "I won't break, Hannibal."

"Your skin will."

"Please," Will mutters. Hannibal sighs; lets his teeth graze. Will pushes into it. "Do it."

Hannibal makes a thick noise and bites down until he tastes blood. Immediately, Will's hands snatch at his hair, but not away, not abortive- just an anchor. Hannibal pulls back anyway. He wants to see. Will is breathing in those soft, ragged bursts like he does when they're having sex. Cheeks flushed, stomach tensed. He's dripping against his stomach. Hannibal can smell it, mixed with the tang of blood. Their eyes meet, and Will exhales with a shiver.

"How does it taste?"

"Sharp and rich," Hannibal murmurs. "How does it feel?"

"Having your teeth in me? Felt like knowing you completely. You knowing me."

Hannibal runs his tongue gently over the broken skin. "What do you know about me?"

"That you'd devour me if you could," Will murmurs.

"How does that make you feel?"

His breath shakes. He looks at the ceiling. "It makes me feel safe."

Hannibal presses a kiss to the other, unblemished thigh. "Because you're mine?"

"Yeah. Because- because I think if I you didn't want that- then it would mean you didn't care about me as much as I care about you."

"Do you...wish to devour me as well?"

Will hums, thinking about it. "I want to let you devour me."

"I want you with me more."

Will sighs. He nods. "When you-" he stops. His voice sounds a little faint.

"When I what?"

"It's- it was a stupid thing to say," Will mutters, running a hand over his face.

"Will," Hannibal says sternly.

"I was going to say... maybe if that changes," Will shrugs. "Shit, I don't know. My brain feels like it's running out of my ears." Hannibal focuses back on his face. The unfocused look in his eyes, the sweaty curls. He forces himself to analyze instead of feel. "It's- it's this," Will says, at his considering silence, "I'm okay, I'm just- overwhelmed."

"What do you need from me?" Hannibal asks evenly, now that he's composed himself.

"Can- can you just come here a minute?" Hannibal repositions himself to stretch next to Will instead. Will curls into him, a little shaky. "I- I didn't want you to stop, I dunno, maybe I'm worried about that."

Hannibal gently soothes him with a hand up and down his side. "Have you experienced feelings of masochism before, or was this more specific?"

"Oh, Jesus," Will mumbles.

"You chose to become involved with a doctor," Hannibal reminds him.

Will smiles, stroking down his chest absently. "Well, Doctor, why don't you tell me first if you've always been a sadist."

"Yes," Hannibal replies simply. "I feel no shame in that."

Will looks up at him, blinking rapidly, but fighting to keep his face straight. "I don't think I expected such an honest answer."

"Why would I lie? Am I so different from so many others, in that?"

"No, usually you play around with the truth, though." Will scritches gently at his chest. "As for your question... I guess I've never minded being hurt. I think this is the first time I've... wanted it enough to ask."

Hannibal keeps his smile to himself. Does Will even realize how fully he mirrors emotions? He responds to honesty with honesty and manipulation with the same. "A high value gift, that sort of admission," he murmurs, stroking Will's cheek.

"Yours or mine?" Will replies.

"Both, don't you think?"

"That's more the kind of answer I was expecting the first time." Hannibal kisses his neck in response, smiling at the corresponding shiver. "Will you do it again?" Will murmurs.

"Perhaps."

"What're the conditions?"

Hannibal strokes his cheek, wildly fond. "Nothing too horrible."

"Tell me?"

"The conditions are we have a discussion about it first, and that I am permitted to provide aftercare." As expected, the last part earns him a wrinkled nose, but Hannibal doesn't break eye contact.

"What do you want to discuss?"

"What we want. How far we're willing to go."

"You first," Will says immediately.

"Must we do this now? I intended to take care of you today." Hannibal soothes a hand over his chest.

"What, you need some time to think it over? You must have something pretty bad in mind." Will keeps his voice gentle. Seems he's okay with the concept of 'pretty bad'. Hannibal bites back on his own frustration. Will's eyes find his. "Did... did I upset you?"

"No, Will. Not at all."

"Tell me."

Hannibal takes a deep breath, and then reaches out brush the hair back from Will's forehead. "I'm just not convinced this is a talk we should be having this instant. You're emotionally charged and exhausted and I'd like to keep you from being even more so." Before Will's expression can fully form into a frown, Hannibal reaches out and trails his fingertips lightly up the underside of his cock. "Please let me," he murmurs, keeping eye contact.

"I'm not- a child," Will mutters, eyes flickering even so.

"No, you are a man with an emotionally taxing profession. And I want more than anything to give you pleasure," he adds innocently.

"You do," Will mutters. He looks suddenly guilty. "I'm sorry, I'm- I'm being-"

Hannibal touches his lips. "Will." He falls silent and Hannibal takes the opportunity to stroke him. "I wanted you relaxed today, so just relax, all right?"

Will nods silently, eyes wide. His face goes through a few expressions before Hannibal circles his thumb over the head of his cock and watches them all melt away. Then it's only pleasure, and Hannibal could watch his face like this forever.

"I feel like I'm being distracted," Will utters. Now, to turn his brain off too. Hannibal dips his head and Will takes a sharp breath. "Hannibal-"

It turns into a wordless whine as soon as Hannibal's tongue caresses over the crown of his cock. It takes a few strokes of his mouth to get him gripping his shoulders and shivering. Hannibal keeps going long after that, driven to taste as much of him as possible. He can't get enough of the sounds he makes. He takes him fully into his mouth, swallowing around him and working his tongue.

"Hannibal, Jesus," Will chokes. It's all he says, repeating himself several times. He keeps it up until he's silently arching, knuckles white in the fabric he's wringing.

Hannibal takes him deep into his throat and sucks him in rhythmic, fluid motions, over and over until he feels Will twitching against his tongue. He can almost smell it when Will gets close and he pulls back so he can get a taste of him; swallows it down when he cries out and pulses into his mouth. Then he sucks until Will is clean and pliant.

"Hannibal," he repeats, plaintive now, "Enough..." It's not quite enough if he's still talking, but he looks so beautiful. His thumbs skim Hannibal's cheeks, gaze soft. "Let me touch you now."

Hannibal meets his eyes and nods. He goes up with the nudging pressure of Will's hands, lying on his side and letting him shift against him. His hands are fumbling as he undoes Hannibal's slacks. Hannibal lets him do as he pleases, no matter how long it takes. He can be patient. He sees Will looking at him; the minute crease between his brows. He's reading him right now, Hannibal can tell. He cups his face and kisses him.

It's a sweet kiss, slow and lingering. Hannibal feels him curl a hand into his shorts, palming him slowly. He groans softly at the wave of sensation. He feels Will's little smile against his mouth as he gets past the last layer of fabric and starts to work him in earnest, tight and fast. It's not meant to be seductive, just quick and dirty. Hannibal loves it for the sense of urgency he can feel under Will's skin. The need to change him; to make him feel. He nips Will's lip and gives him what he wants, bridging into his touch in a rough rhythm of need.

The violence Hannibal denied him earlier swirls around them like a net. He can still taste Will's release, and he remembers the taste of his blood. The scent of him curls between them too, mingling with Hannibal's own. And he's so desperate to bring Hannibal off: to show him he can still be useful to him, even now. Hannibal sees it in him, and it makes the love in his chest pulse ever more fiercely. It's a sharp and consuming love, and Hannibal needs to concentrate just to contain it.

"Will," he breathes, gripping at his chest.

Will kisses him, mouth climbing up his throat to his ear. Hannibal's eyes slip shut, and the twist of Will's wrist combined with the swipe of his thumb has Hannibal finally cording tight. He gasps in a breath and holds it. All he knows is feeling for a moment, Will's hot breath on his throat and the sweet, tight friction of him as he coaxes him to his release, hot and long and fierce.

His sweet boy even holds him after while he catches his breath, while curved talons rend Hannibal from the inside. He wonders at what point this became about Will comforting him. The thought irks him as much as it stirs his curiosity. He tucks his chin on top of Will's head and keeps him close.

Eventually Will's phone rings, and Hannibal entertains brief fantasies of crushing it under his heel while Will speaks to whoever is on the other end of the call. He gets up to take it, and Hannibal can hear him pacing on the landing. When he returns, he looks fractious.

"I have to go to work. Another body's dropped nearby. Not the guy from last night."

"I had assumed as such," Hannibal keeps his tone mild, with an effort.

Will doesn't say anything, just grabs his clothes and goes to the bathroom. Hannibal does up his fly and makes the bed, setting the towel they'd been lying on aside for now. Then he goes downstairs to make coffee. Will joins him a few minutes later, face downcast.

"I can get a streetcar to the precinct if you'd rather," he offers, apropos of nothing Hannibal can fathom.

"Is that what you want?" Hannibal asks, handing him his usual thermos. He doesn't like the way Will is trying to withdraw from him on this case.

"I just- it's…" Will swallows. "Just thought you should relax on your day off."

"Perhaps I'll take the opportunity to go to the market," Hannibal says evenly. "Will I see you again tonight?"

"I don't know how long I'll be. Shit. I'm sorry. Yes."

"You know you're welcome at any time."

"I know, but that's not fair- it's not..." he rubs his eyes and stops himself retreading conversations they've already had.

Hannibal pulls him in for a kiss instead. "Let me take you to the precinct." He picks up his car keys before there is any more arguing.

Will follows him out to the car, shoulders set like his battered blazer weighs a ton. Hannibal is repressing a nearly irresistible urge to growl. Will must sense it, because he shifts a bit in his seat as they drive.

"It's always like this," he mutters, like a warning. "It's the nature of the work."

"I understand, Will."

"You don't like it though, and you don't like me when I'm like this."

"I don't like seeing it ride you," Hannibal corrects.

"It's part of me. Always has been. I was made for this particular saddle."

_No_ , Hannibal thinks. "One might argue that your inability to desensitize yourself might mean the opposite."

"I didn't ask to be psychoanalyzed," Will replies tiredly.

"I'm not psychoanalyzing you; I am pointing out that your work does not have to emotionally destroy you for you to be a good person."

Will just snorts out a soft breath. "I save people's lives," he murmurs, "it's worth it."

"I care about your life, not the lives you save," Hannibal replies sharply. He feels Will's eyes on him; his disarmed silence. He's not sure why he's so surprised.

"I know," Will says eventually, "but I know what I'm doing."

"I don't dispute that.”

The rest of the drive is silent. Will looks out of the window, gripping his thermos with white knuckles. He's visibly reluctant to get out of the car when they arrive at the precinct.

"Will," Hannibal touches his arm gently. 

"Yeah." He aims his eyes at Hannibal's mouth, expression unsure.

"I'll see you later." Brushing a kiss to his cheek, he notices the way Will grips the front of his shirt. After a moment he nods, closing his eyes.

"Okay."

"Take care, Will." Hannibal sits back and watches him fumble his things out of the car. Then he's gone, hurrying toward the building and out of sight. Hannibal starts the engine again after only a moment of furious silence. He will go to the market after all, because going home alone doesn't seem like the best thing to do at this moment. He steers out of temporary parking with his hands tight on the wheel.


	8. Chapter 8

"Bev, no, we already ruled out the church custodian, remember?" Will pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes. He can barely see Beverly over the stack of files on his desk.

"I know, but I think it's worth taking another look." She frowns, folding her arms as she stares at the board on Will's office wall.

"I'm not saying we can't, I'm just saying he doesn't feel right." Will follows her gaze, eyes traveling from each suspect photo. He doesn't know what it is, but it doesn't line up. None of them do. He feels like they're at a dead end.

It needles at him. They've been at this stop for days: as well as Patrol unearthing a human torso from downriver, a distraction Will hadn't needed, another body has since dropped from their Cemetery killer. This time the scene had the scent of disgust and disappointment that the woman at Saint Louis’ had; the male body was crucified on a cross shaped headstone, disfigured by bloody lacerations and beatings. The killer left behind a wad of saliva on his face that gave them a blood type and sweet fuck-all else with no DNA matches in the system.

At least it wasn't a child this time. Will's been dreaming of her for weeks now, clutching weakly at his arms and breathing blood where she lay on the marble crypt, crimson running onto the pale floor. He's been hesitant to sleep over at Hannibal's and disturb him with his nightmares. The man is a doctor, he needs his rest. He knows Hannibal is irritated with him about it, but he's not sure what to do. Thinking about Hannibal is the only thing that's keeping him going.

"Hey." Bev touches his shoulder. "You okay?"

"I'm just tired," Will grumbles. He’s more than tired. He’s exhausted. And disgusted. He rubs his eyes. "This is eating me."

"I know, Will, me too." She smiles at him. "Let's take a break for a few minutes."

They go down to the canteen, a habitual process for both of them by now, and sit with twin cups of hot, gritty coffee that tastes so over-brewed Will almost can’t drink it. Where usually Will is distracted by Bev’s chirpy, sharp banter, now they’re both quiet with weariness.

Will’s thinking of his swamp killer, unbidden, jointing corpses and throwing chunks of flesh delicately into waiting jaws. Patient hands do the work, the nature of it absurd, like feeding ducks on a grassy bank deep in the swamplands. _We should canvas trailers and lake cabins for the Bayou Butcher,_ he muses to himself, _there might be places around Biloxi we’ve missed for potential dumping grounds_.

His mind ticks over, back to the sun baked Saint Louis cemetery, mausoleums stacked beside one another like neat little houses for the dead; the waiting woman with her hands clasped in prayer. Beside her, the little girl, laid to rest in her white dress, and now their crucified man, paying for their sins. A gory diorama unfolds before him. None of the victims are related, but this puts Will in mind of children’s drawings: a mommy, a daddy, and a little girl.

Bev nudges him with her elbow, sounding almost like she’s been having a conversation Will didn’t realize he was taking part in. "I feel like I really ought to send you home to your boyfriend," she teases.

Will smiles a bit, sighing at the thought. "Not sure he deserves that."

"Will, you know better than that," she scolds.

"I know me better. I'm not fun lately."

"It happens." She shrugs with understanding. "Look, I was right the first time. Go see Doctor Handsome. I'll go home too. We'll come back to this in the morning."

"Doctor Handsome." Shaking his head, Will looks reluctantly at the time- approaching eleven, as it so often is nowadays. He gives a single stiff nod, and Bev thumps his shoulder gently.

"We'll get him. I promise."

They part ways again. As he heads for his car, he remembers Hannibal is working tonight and heads for the hospital instead.

*

He goes to the little coffee shop Hannibal likes on his way. It seems only fair, when Hannibal so often goes out of his way to make an effort for Will, and is usually rewarded by him having to leave early, or go to work, or- just by him being _Will_. Nice coffee is the least he can do, even if he has to leave it at the desk.

Thankfully, it doesn't go quite that way. The nurse on Hannibal's floor does a very poor job of disguising her approval as she goes to let Doctor Lecter know that his boyfriend is here. Soon, Hannibal himself comes to greet him, but Will frowns when he sees him. He looks drawn and tired.

"Will." His voice is flooded with warmth despite it all. "What a pleasant surprise."

"I brought this for you," Will tells him. He holds the coffee up like a white flag. Hannibal tilts his head and touches his shoulder.

"I have a few minutes. Come to the office."

"Sure," Will murmurs, trailing along behind.

In the quiet of Hannibal's office, he sees him as he rarely has before, sinking onto the sofa and gratefully accepting the cup Will passes him.

Will sits next to him. "Are you all right?"

"Difficult surgery," Hannibal murmurs. "We lost her in the end."

Will sighs and reaches out for him automatically, surprised by the compulsion. He's surprised when Hannibal takes his hand and squeezes. Hannibal is always poised, especially about patients. "Tell me?" Will asks hesitantly.

"She just went into cardiac arrest, there was nothing I could do. I tried," Hannibal looks down at his shoes, hair falling out of its usual aggressively styled sweep. "She was so young."

"Hannibal..." Will squeezes his hand tighter, a frantic sort of protectiveness clawing at the inside of his chest. "When - when does your shift end?"

"Midnight." Hannibal sips his coffee.

Not long. "I'll wait for you. I'll take you home."

Hannibal's smile is small, tired and sincere. "All right, Will. Thank you."

Will smiles back and settles into the sofa cushions. Hannibal doesn't let go of his hand. He stares at his coffee for a long time, and then kisses Will's forehead gently.

"Let me go do my rounds. I'll make it quick."

"I'm fine right here." He might fall asleep, though he doesn't want to. Hannibal gives him a smile, easier now.

"All right. I'll come get you when it's time." Then he's gone again, and Will sighs.

He gets lost for a while thinking of Hannibal struggling to let go in the operating room, the failure to keep his patient alive. Will thinks of the girl dying in his arms again and sighs at the heavy knowledge that they share the same burden. He lets himself study Hannibal's office so he won't close his eyes. He sips his coffee, and bounces his knee, and thinks about how much he hates hospitals. Even in here, he can still feel the aura of tension over the entire building. He can only try his hardest to ignore it. Eventually, he hears footsteps outside; Hannibal's voice.

He's talking to a nurse, covering patient instructions. When he lets himself into the office, he goes quiet again.

Will smiles at him sleepily. "Hi."

"Hello," Hannibal murmurs. "Just let me get my things."

"All right." He waits where he is, because Hannibal hates being rushed. It's always interesting to just watch Hannibal do things. Despite it being midnight, and the end of an undoubtedly awful day, Hannibal still combs his hair back with his fingers and pulls his jacket on, straightening up before he starts to pack his things into his satchel. When he's done, he looks at Will, who gets up and drains his coffee. "I'll drive us."

"All right." Hannibal opens the door for them, and only delays their progress slightly when he takes Will's hand again, causing him to nearly walk into a moving gurney.

Will forces himself to calm down. For his part, Hannibal looks slightly amused. Better than the gray look from before. "Think we'll survive all the way to the car?" he says, privately. Will feigns affront.

"Hush - that gurney came out of nowhere."

"If you say so." Hannibal squeezes his hand. Will squeezes back, and they make it the rest of the way home without incident.

*

Will pours them both a sizeable measure of whiskey. It feels normal for him to move around Hannibal's space without thinking; without worrying if he should. He steers him up to the bedroom with gentle hands, and though Hannibal is entirely together, he seems happy for the direction.

They sit in the armchairs by Hannibal's fireplace. Will watches him closely, and unconsciously mirrors his stance. He's immersed in him, in how he's feeling. There are normal things, like frustration and failure and self-criticism, but the guilt - that seems aimed at something else entirely.

"Could you tell me about it?" he asks carefully.

Hannibal turns his dark eyes on him, expression unclear. "As I said. Difficult case."

"A young girl?" Will says.

"Yes. She's been fighting a hereditary heart disease for some time, and already had several surgeries."

"Why do you feel guilty?" Will murmurs.

"Because I'm tired," Hannibal mutters, "and I shouldn't have been doing the surgery. It was an emergency."

Will frowns at him. "I'm sure you didn't make any mistakes, Hannibal."

"It's not a matter of making mistakes."

"Then I don't think I understand?"

"I couldn't-" Hannibal stalls, taking a long breath. "I couldn't stop it when it started. I couldn't fix it."

Will just studies him. There's something going on here. He's never seen Hannibal like this. He's usually so stoic. Unbidden, Will leans close and reaches out to him. "What are you not telling me?"

"I've told you everything relevant."

Will's brow furrows. This is about something personal. He goes and perches on Hannibal's chair arm, touches his slightly disheveled hair.

Hannibal looks up at him, expression more bare and uncertain than Will has seen him before. He's comforted by Hannibal's hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. "It put me in mind of my sister."

"I didn't know you had a sister," Will says.

"She died when she was young," Hannibal murmurs, "after my parents were killed."

Will studies his face. "You were there," he says softly.

"Only when they took her away." Will clutches Hannibal's hand tighter. Hannibal doesn't talk for a moment. "I'm aware that my feelings of inadequacy are intrinsically linked to her death, and that it's illogical. That doesn't make it a less terrible burden, though."

"Who took her away?" Will asks softly.

"The men who killed my parents."

"Who were they?" He's not expecting the shivering breath Hannibal takes. He wonders if he's ever told anyone about this- anyone here.

"Thieves. They came for money but- it went badly. There was a snow storm coming in - I don't think they meant to kill my mother and father, it all happened so fast- and then it was just Mischa and I." His face has gone as still as marble. Will has seen such a thing before, but never… never with Hannibal. He doesn't look at Will as he continues, but his voice drops a few decibels. "We were snowed in the cabin with them for several weeks. Mischa was ill. They- they were starving. We all were."

Will's heart drops. He sees a hand throw a hunk of human meat into a thrashing fray of scales and teeth. "They butchered her."

Hannibal nods slowly.

"And you benefited from it."

He does look at Will then. Will holds his gaze steadily, for once unable to look away.

"Not knowingly, at the time." Hannibal utters.

"What did you do?"

"I set the cabin on fire while they were sleeping."

Will shudders. He can see it like he's there, drifts of snow, a dirty-faced boy, flames glinting in his eyes.

He sees the path it set Hannibal on, too. "Did they die?"

Hannibal nods. "I made sure of it."

They're silent for several long minutes, lost in remembering - and imagining. Finally, Will takes a deep breath.

"So when I... when my girl died... and now this."

Hannibal continues to be very still under Will's hand. "The emotions, I find, never go away. They merely empty and fill, like the bulbs of an hour glass."

Will doesn't know what to say. There's nothing he _can_ say. He touches Hannibal's hair carefully, relieved when he leans into it.

"What can I do?"

"There's nothing to be done," Hannibal says flatly.

"What can I do for _you_?"

Hannibal's breath is measured, and so is his sip of his drink. "Whatever you'd like."

Will gets up and goes to the bathroom; turns on the taps in the great claw-foot tub and then goes back to Hannibal, holding a hand out for him. "Turns out I'd like a bath. With you."

Hannibal hesitates, and then takes his hand, letting Will pull him to his feet. "There are bath salts in the cabinet," he says when they're both in the slowly warming room, but he doesn't move to help.

Will can handle that. He adds a scoop, and then comes back to Hannibal to start unbuttoning his jacket, waistcoat, shirt. "I can barely imagine you in scrubs, you know," he says mildly.

"They wash me out."

A joke. Will thinks that's a good sign. He rolls Hannibal's tie carefully and hangs his jacket and waistcoat provincially on the towel warmer. Hannibal helps slip the shirt down his arms and off. He sighs when Will leans and kisses his shoulder as he works his belt undone.

"Sweet of you, Detective.”

"I can be sweet, sometimes."

"Nice Southern boy?"

"Yessir." He noses under his chin, the action more affectionate than provocative. Hannibal allows it, and Will works the rest of his clothes off. He slips his own off and then pulls Hannibal to the bath.

They slot together in the hot water, Hannibal cradling Will before him. It's a soothing silence, interrupted only by the slosh of the water against their skin, petering away to merely a sigh. Hannibal raises wet fingers to stroke Will's hair back, his other hand tender on his chest. Will can feel his breath washing over his temple. He puts his hands on Hannibal's knees, thumbs stroking.

"It wasn't your fault, you know."

A deep, slow shudder sticks somewhere in Hannibal's chest. He presses his nose into Will's temple, fingers tightening incrementally. "I know I did everything I could. It's the helplessness that wounds."

"You have agency now, Hannibal."

"Not over death."

Will tips his head. Something in the tone… but no, Hannibal is exhausted and doesn't deserve to be analyzed tonight. He holds his hand up, and Hannibal laces their fingers. Will kisses each of his knuckles in turn.

Hannibal sighs softly, then with another breath he pulls Will tighter against himself suddenly, burying his face against his neck. They don't speak, and Will doesn't ask, but he thinks he understands. Hannibal is overwhelmed. And overwhelming. Will squeezes his hands until he feels the tension start to eke out of him.

The other things he feels, though. Those are… terrifying.

All at once, Hannibal's lips are on his neck, and his hand tight on his chest, and the intensity is sudden and sharp. He lets himself gasp; then there’s Hannibal's teeth, just a flash, before he softens all over again. His hand soothes now, contact seeking assurance. His voice is barely audible even against Will's ear.

"Will... thank you for coming to me tonight."

"I needed you, too," Will sighs.

"An unfamiliar feeling for both of us, I think."

"Not so much anymore." He sighs when Hannibal cups water against his nape and back, the action thoughtful.

"Perhaps not." His voice is soft. "Will..."

"Hannibal?"

"I... never realized the extent to which I needed you."

"It's all right to need someone."

"What if it's more than needing you? Is it all right then?"

"What would it be, then?"

Hannibal falls silent again. Will can feel the rise and fall of his chest.

"Love, I believe, if such a word could do it justice."

"You're not sure it could," Will whispers.

"No, it seems too small to hold the breadth of what I feel."

Will's own heart feels arrhythmic. He holds Hannibal's hand over where it thuds in his chest, cradling like they could suss the condition of it between them. Metaphorically speaking, it feels full. Overfull, like it's also too small to contain what he needs it to. He thinks he might be smiling.

"I think you're right."

The exhale of Hannibal's breath wraps around him like clinging smoke. They don't let go of one another for a long time. Finally, Will pulls the plug and gets them both towels. Hannibal seems to have gathered himself enough at least to put pajamas on when Will passes them to him.

They both finish getting ready for bed and climb in silently together. Will looks at the looming shapes of the ceiling, cast from the light outside.

"I feel heavy and light. It's a curious sensation."

"Exhaustion can feel like that." He feels Hannibal open up, and he curls into the bracket of his body immediately. Hannibal wraps around him just as quickly.

"We'll be okay," Will assures. "It's okay."

Hannibal kisses him in response. Will clutches at him until they're too tired to continue. They fall asleep pressed tight together.

*

When Will wakes up from his own private horror show, it's still dark and he can't hear anything but the frantic beating of his own heart. He gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to wash the sweat off his face and neck, sighing to himself. Hannibal seems to have slept through it. Will's glad. He's not sure he wants to confess about dreaming Hannibal's childhood trauma. He wonders if Hannibal still does. He seems to sleep untroubled.

As he gets into bed, he looks at him for a long time, still and serene. His heart surges with affection again. Love. A small, terrifying word. Hannibal is right. It's not big enough for all its connotations. Will never expected this.

He wants to enjoy it while it lasts. It seems hard to believe that it would.

Resigned, he sighs and closes his eyes, willing himself back to sleep. Even as he drifts, he can smell smoke and pine. Firelight flickering in bottomless dark eyes. He takes a step and snow crunches underfoot. He follows Hannibal into the woods. He's not sure what he will find.

*

He wakes early again, and this time Hannibal is already sat up in bed beside him, his tablet lighting his eyes up as he reads. Will stretches up a hand to encircle his wrist. Hannibal looks down at him, and he's tousled and young-faced with it. Will sighs at the sight of his tiny smile.

"Hi..."

"Will. I hope I didn't disturb you.”

"No. No. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Good. I dreamt about you." He sighs softly, twisting closer, his hand slipping down to Hannibal's thigh, feeling the muscle through his pants.

"Did you?"

"Mm. Prefer the real thing though."

"Am I the real thing? I would dearly love to see myself as conjured by your mind, Will."

That makes Will thoughtful. "Would you really?"

"Yes, it would be singularly fascinating."

"I think of you as... something unearthly. An old god in disguise." He lets his fingers find the drawstring of Hannibal's pants. "Something experiencing human life but unburdened by the same worries that mere humans carry with them."

Hannibal hums. "I don't know if that's true."

"No, maybe not. It's more a feeling than an assessment."

"What else do you feel, Will?"

"I feel privileged to see you."

"Will," Hannibal sighs again, hips lifting. "The privilege is mine."

Will smiles and pushes his hand past his waistband, cupping him in his palm, slowly stroking. "I'm an open wound. You're something else."

"You're beautiful as you are.”

Will beckons him close with his other hand. "Let me show you how I feel."

Hannibal leans close for the kiss Will is offering. It's deep and urgent and somehow slow. Will still feels like he's half-asleep. He leans over Hannibal when he's reclined, keeping the movements of his hand steady. Will's lips brush his jaw.

"When I feel like I'm bleeding out, you float in the waves of it."

Hannibal's breath shudders. "At the mercy of your ocean."

"Following the pull of the moon."

"And what is its metaphorical counterpart in this context, Will?"

Will strokes him slowly, thinking. "You tell me."

"The truth, perhaps." His voice doesn't crack, but it goes quiet. Will dips to kiss his throat, and then draws down his body, taking his pants down around his thighs.

He just stares for a moment. He can never entirely get over quite how beautiful Hannibal really is. Then he trails his mouth down soft hair and softer skin. Gentle fingers comb through his curls, Hannibal's voice a low rumble when he speaks his name.

Will feels like his very skin is alight. He licks him, tasting every inch he can, burying his mouth against the soft curve of his sack and then lower, reveling in the scent of him. Hannibal’s hips shift, fighting the restriction of the pajama bottoms. Will wrestles with them a bit, then curses under his breath and pulls back to tug them off.

Hannibal spreads his legs immediately. Will holds back a groan at his hands in his hair again, urging him back down at the same time he bows his head. Hannibal's smell and taste take over his senses. He sucks softly at the underside of his cock in small, open mouthed kisses. Then he goes lower again, pushing his thighs a fraction wider and sighing when Hannibal obligingly holds his knees, displaying himself. He's softer like this, but still alive with tension somewhere deep within him.

Will drags his tongue in a long swathe over his hole and then eases in with the point, like he could somehow unwind him. Hannibal actually makes a noise when he feels it. One hand snags back in Will's hair again, holding him there as Will slowly fucks him with his tongue, heat throbbing through him at the intimacy of it. His grip is unyielding, triggering an overwhelming, need in Will. He moans softly against his skin, sucking again at his taint and then back in with his tongue.

He shoots a look up at Hannibal's face. Brows drawn, teeth bared. Will is ignited by the sight. His nails bite into the thin skin of Hannibal's hips and he is rewarded with a gasp. Will shifts one thumb to press inside him, licking at hot skin.

"Will-" Hannibal gasps his name, choked and reverent.

"If I crawled inside of you like a cocoon, Hannibal. What would come back out?"

He sees Hannibal's cock pulse at the words; feels it around his thumb. "I imagine a most fearsome thing," he whispers.

"How does that make you feel?" Will whispers.

"It makes me feel powerful."

"You are," Will breathes. "I love it, Hannibal. I love it."

"Show me," Hannibal says. It's almost a plea.

Will licks another slow stripe all the way up from his hole to his glans, twitching and wet at the tip. He keeps pressing inside him with his thumb, rubbing at the flesh with gentle, circling motions. Hannibal gasps, eyes clenching shut.

"More," he orders softly.

Will gives it to him, taking the thick head of his cock into his mouth and suckling as his thumb presses deeper. But he needs even more. Pulling out, he spits on his fingers and presses two inside.

"Will-" Hannibal sounds faintly reproachful even as he cants his hips up for more, toes curling. That only means he doesn't want to like it, not that he doesn't. Will feels a horrible little stab of pleasure at annoying him this way- in a way he can't resist- and so he spits again into the crease between his fingers, stroking it into Hannibal and sighing at the slide before he catches his eye and lips his cock back into his mouth.

Hannibal growls faintly. His fingers tighten in Will's hair, and his brows only relax when Will starts to trace shapes against the skin on his tongue. He slides the foreskin back with careful motions of his lips, and sucks. Hannibal hisses something low and indecipherable under his breath, groaning when Will circles the tips of his fingers inside him. Will sucks harder, seeking with them.

"Will-" Hannibal's breath sounds snatched around the word. It's enough to urge Will to take him deeper. He can see the muscles in Hannibal's lean stomach tightening. Will takes him down so far that he can’t even breathe. He swallows around his cock, shuddering at the pre-seminal fluid in the back of his throat as he strokes faster with his fingers.

Hannibal lies back, body arching with each stroke. All Will can do is keep it up; let him push into his mouth as he rubs inside him, careful and concentrated, eyes tearing with the strain. He loses himself in the feeling, his vision going spotty as his breath goes. Hannibal coils tighter under his efforts, and then his hands wrench tight.

"So close, darling boy, please-"

Will moans, his own body clenching, throat squeezing. He gives him another round of long, swallowing sucks as he fucks him deep with his fingers before pulling back to focus on the head of his cock, stroking down the slick length with his other hand. Everything is the sound of skin on skin and tight moans. Hannibal chokes on his name and Will tastes him starting to come.

He pulls back only enough to swallow. He wants it all, wants it inside him, not a single drop to go to waste. If he can't crawl inside him and shape-shift, maybe he can imbibe the change this way.

He keeps sucking until Hannibal tenses, then licks even longer. Hannibal waits him out, breathing hard and watching him, cock twitching with oversensitivity. Will crooks his fingers again automatically to see his face change.

"Will," he says, half a plea. For what, Will isn't sure. He pulls back carefully, smoothing his hands up his belly and chest, drinking in the sight of him. He rasps his cheek against the panel of silver chest hair. Hannibal strokes his cheek now, soothing. "My love," he whispers.

Will smiles, still a little breathless. "Hey."

"Come here," he orders softly.

Will does, shivering a bit at every incidental brush of skin. So does Hannibal. He kisses Will slow and careful.

"How does it feel, having me inside you?"

Will touches his lips gently, thoughtful for a moment. "Like keeping a secret."

"I like having my secrets inside you."

"I'll carry them always, I promise."

Hannibal sighs, touching his face. Will leans into it lazily, relaxed but still coiled tight. He wants, with a white-hot flare. Hips squirming, he sighs when Hannibal nips at his throat.

"Harder," he demands. Hannibal leans back to meet Will's gaze pointedly. Will nods. Hannibal's teeth are the only thing that matters suddenly. "Here," he adds, touching his shoulder.

Hannibal wets his lips, tongue a flash of crimson. Will strokes his hair; kisses him softly to ease the hesitance, nipping in turn at his lower lip. "Mark me.”

Hannibal curls his lip in a silent snarl and sinks his teeth into the muscle. Will gives a growl of his own, not nearly silent. He holds Hannibal to him even so, breathing hard through the pain. He's still aroused. Maybe even more so.

Hannibal sucks over the red grooves left behind by his teeth. He's humming in his throat and Will writhes at the drawing discomfort. He jerks helplessly when Hannibal strokes up his cock.

"So hard for me," Hannibal purrs.

"You make me crazy," Will groans.

"Such compliments."

Will snaps his teeth at him. That gets him a fond smile.

"What do you want, darling?"

"Just touch me. Stay here with me."

Hannibal tips his head to suck at his neck. He tunnels his fingers tight around Will and strokes him fast and sure.

It's fast enough to make him go mindless. He arches and gasps, yanked headlong into the feeling as if immersed in hot water. It could boil around him and he'd never know. He sees Hannibal through a pane of liquid glass, dark eyes attentive and soft lips curved in a smile.

So calm; even now. He'd wonder if anything touched him if he didn't know it did; that he daily showed himself to Will in tiny, palatable glimpses. He chooses to. Will chooses to let him. He wants to put together every precious fractal and see the warped reflection of himself.

He gasps into Hannibal's neck, straining to be closer. It's almost torture when Hannibal pulls away, but it's just fleetingly for the lube Will didn't have the patience for earlier: he's clearly not about to spit in his hand. Will laughs softly just picturing it.

"Something to share with the class?"

"Not a chance." Will kisses him to distract.

Hannibal wraps a slick hand around his cock and swallows Will's moan in the slide of their lips. His grip is just this side of too tight. Will's shoulder and cock throb together. He gasps when Hannibal licks over the mark again.

"Please," he begs.

It hurts more somehow, the second time. He feels blood mingle with Hannibal's saliva. At the same time, he comes into his hand, long and messy. All he can do is groan and go limp in Hannibal's arms. His breath in his ear is rapid, silence considering.

"Hannibal," he whispers.

"Will." He kisses his cheek gently.

Will is too lost to reply. He stays clinging to him long after the last shivers of need dissipate. Hannibal soothes him with quiet noises. Their foreheads press together. Will feels trembly with everything; afraid to break his own dam.

"I'll need to clean that," Hannibal says after a while.

"Do I have to move?"

He thinks Hannibal smiles. "No."

He kisses him before he goes to the bathroom to fetch his first aid kit. Will lies and arches a bit, frowning when he notices the sheets sticking to his shoulder in spots where the blood that ran down to the mattress has dried. More blood than he was expecting; most people would be too tentative to bite that hard. He cranes to look but can only see the blurred red edges from the angle. It makes his head hurt so he stops, pushing his face into the cool side of the pillow instead.

Hannibal's weight dips the mattress again. Will sees him set a glass of water on the side. "Lie still," Hannibal orders softly.

"Yes, Doctor." He closes his eyes, hissing a bit at the first cold sting of disinfectant. Hannibal just works steadily to clean and cover the mark. He wipes Will down too, to his amusement, and only leaves to dispose of his supplies before curling against Will again in bed.

It's absurdly soothing, where he thinks it absolutely should not be. He wraps an arm over Hannibal's waist and closes his eyes. Sleep is easy to find.

*

They wake up later, still curled together. Will has to go to work. He hasn't failed to notice how it's getting harder to do so, hasn't failed to notice how he's living out of his go-bag lately. He's barely had time to go home, but he's not sure he minds. His house is just a place he keeps his things now. Maybe it always was.

After his shower, he sits on the edge of the bed and touches Hannibal's shoulder gently. "I hope you can sleep in today, I have to go in now."

Hannibal covers his hand with his own, sighing. "I'll do my best. Try to leave when your shift is up, won't you?"

Will shrugs. "I always try."

"It wasn't a criticism. Just a suggestion." Hannibal squeezes his hand gently. "Come here later. I want to look at your shoulder. And you may want to take some painkillers."

"Of course," Will nods, not even a token protest. Nothing makes as much sense as letting Hannibal tend to him.

He bends to kiss him, and Hannibal seems reluctant to let him go.

Eventually he does, and Will tries not to regret his absence in the kitchen as he makes himself a cup of coffee: he needs to sleep. Will lets himself out, goes to work, and lets the aches in his body keep him from being dragged under. Hannibal is present as a constant hum under his skin. Will wonders if the opposite is true.

***

 Later that week, Hannibal's Chief of Medicine offers him a few days holiday from the hospital in order to collect his thoughts, and he takes them. He's capable of shouldering this incident and moving on, and normally he would, but something about the way Will is carefully attentive and so, so attuned to him right now tells him that wasting this opportunity would be a mistake. Will even leaves work before eight o'clock most nights, showing up at Hannibal's door with his duffel bag and a soft smile.

During the day, Hannibal stocks his larder, be it organically or otherwise. At night, he feeds Will. It's as satisfying as anything he could imagine. 

He had not imagined how it would feel when his realtor calls him and tells him he has found what he's been looking for.

"My assistant ended up scouring the building permit office for his initial permits," he tells Hannibal, sounding rather proud. "And here's the best part, Doctor Lecter. It's for sale."

Hannibal feels a gentle thrill. "Buy it." He'd have made an offer anyway, but this is fortunate. He's not sure what he'll do with his newest acquisition, but it's reassuring to have it.

*

For his part, Will seems glad to see Hannibal taking the proffered days off, spending time at home. He's tired lately, but just sitting on the porch with coffee and Hannibal's presence of an evening seems to calm him. Hannibal finds their newly found domesticity pleasant, but it's when they're in bed together that the most delicious signs of attunement emerge.

Will is exquisitely intuitive, easily interpreting Hannibal's barest displays of desire, and the more delicate nuances of his mood. Hannibal has never been so easily read – not without allowing himself to be - but knowing him as he does now seems to have finely honed Will’s abilities, and he divines each twitch and tell; the sounds of Hannibal’s breath, and the cadence of his moans.

More and more, Hannibal has been crept upon by the desire to have Will _truly_ know him now. It’s getting harder to restrain his urges now that he’s had the taste of Will’s blood between his teeth. Sometimes he finds himself imagining Will discovering him, curved blade in hand, blood on his clothes.

Maybe that's why tonight, when they're both sweat-misted and panting, Will looks at Hannibal and says, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

No accusation or artifice. It's thrilling to be so easily read. Hannibal can't resist caressing his cheek for a moment, just looking. Will smiles back softly, but his eyes still show concern. Hannibal stifles his utter delight.

"Just the usual," he offers. "I'm preoccupied with going back to work, I suppose."

"I understand. Are you - happy?"

"When I'm with you? Yes. Or did you mean to be going back to work?"

"Well, both now." Will grins up at him, fingers trailing across his chest.

Hannibal sighs and reflects on it. "I enjoy my work, but it is never a good feeling to call that time on a person's life. I'm sure that's something you're familiar with."

Will nods. He pretends not to be, but he's so sweet.

"I'm considering making the leap to psychiatry," Hannibal continues. "It would be nice to have more time. I've never wanted it before now."

Will's sea-blue eyes go warm. "Me neither."

Hannibal walks his fingers down the center of Will's chest. "My aunt always said I was a workaholic. It would be nice to prove her wrong."

"The one from Japan?" Will asks. "You never talk about her."

That makes Hannibal thoughtful. He examines the splay of Will’s dark eyelashes with a thumb. "I am protective of her, I suppose. She had a deeply tragic life."

Will frowns and touches his face. He looks at Hannibal for a long minute, and Hannibal lets him.

"You loved her," Will says, sounding- so many things. Surprised and heart sore and wounded for him.

"Yes. She was my uncle's wife, but twenty years his junior. She was... very dear to me."

Will is quiet again. Hannibal sighs and closes his eyes.

"She did not approve of the man I had become before she died. My uncle had a heart attack shortly after he adopted me, and due to death duties on his estate, my aunt and I were destitute despite his title. I paid my way through my first years of medical school with my art before I was given an internship at Johns Hopkins."

Silence. Will is still drinking him in with his gaze, measuring every muscle and breath.

"There's something else, isn't there?" He surmises eventually. He shifts minutely closer, a surprised sound escaping when Hannibal pulls him into his lap. "What made her disappointed in you, when you worked so hard to better yourself?"

Hannibal stares at him, marveling at the plucking of his strings. Will picks a melody out of him like no one ever has.

"I told you about the cabin."

"You were just a boy then..." Will trails off, but his mind moves faster than his mouth and he tuts in realization. "There were more of them. They didn’t all die in the fire.” At Hannibal's nod, Will's hands tighten fractionally on his shoulders. "You went looking for them.”

“Yes.” He’s fascinated. Will’s voice has gone distant and soft, like a psychic relaying whispers from the dead.

“You killed them. How many?"

The bluntness makes Hannibal tense minutely despite himself. Will is seemingly unstoppable when he's following mental footsteps.

"One had killed himself. The other two were still alive, not even hiding."

"How old were you?"

"I was seventeen."

Will's expression hasn't changed, but he sees through Hannibal, witnessing the chaotic motions of his younger self rather the Hannibal now, in passive repose. "How did you do it?"

Hannibal gets his attention finally, hands squeezing his arms. "Do you really want to know that?"

He can’t stop watching the rapid blinks of Will’s eyes; color rising in his cheeks. His voice is shivery when he says, "What am I going to do, arrest you?"

"Are you?"

"No, Hannibal. Of course not." He frowns, looking down at their laps, fidgeting a bit. He searches the sheets as if he sees a tiny enactment there, before his breath stutters again. "Did you eat them?"

He has no expression other than a faint frown. Hannibal wets his lips. He feels breathless to behold Will's mind at work.

"Only the oysters," he mutters.

"Was it - what you needed?"

Hannibal looks up at him, his eyes wide and intent, his imagination undoubtedly filling in the gaps. "It was what she needed."

He barely dares to breathe after that, watching Will. He seems so far away again for a moment, and then he's back, and his hands are shaking. He takes a few gulping breaths and wipes his eyes.

"It was what she needed," he echoes. He covers his face with his hands but makes no attempt to pull away. Hannibal touches his shoulders, feeling the shake. When Will's hands slip down to just his mouth, his eyes are bright and narrowed against tears. It makes Hannibal’s own eyes unexpectedly sting. He wishes Will would speak.

When he does, it's not exactly what he expects. "I'm sorry that the justice system served you so poorly you had to take matters into your own hands."

Hannibal shakes his head, fond and raw and wounded. "Don't, Will."

"They should have caught them. You shouldn't have had to take that burden on yourself. You were a _boy_ -"

"I'm not now," Hannibal says quickly, to stop the flow of words; the unwarranted guilt.

Will breathes hard; keeps rubbing his eyes. "I know that."

"I am fully in control of my own destiny now, Will." He draws some form of composure back around himself; a coat tailored to his fit. Will needs it. They both do.

Will looks up at him, and he nods. "I know that. I know."

"I will not allow anyone I love to be taken from me. Ever again."

They hold one another's gaze. Will swallows hard. "I'm not going. I promise."

"So do I," Hannibal assures. He forces himself to relax; to let Will press his damp face into his shoulder and cling. It thrills him even as darkness claws at his insides. His hand slips up to cover the bite on Will's throat, possessive now. Will just clings harder.

"It's all right," Hannibal murmurs, "it's okay, Will." His thumb soothes over scabbed skin.

They stay like that for a long time. Will seems exhausted. It's obvious he's forced himself to feel too much. Hannibal cups the back of his head and kisses his temple.

"Let me get you a drink."

"Whiskey," he mumbles.

"Good idea."

He hates to set him aside, even for a few minutes, the swirling darkness of his insides kindled to roaring flame with the fuel of acceptance. Will curls on his side and pulls a pillow into his arms like he can't bear it either. Hannibal retrieves the decanter and two glasses from the drinks cabinet in his library and pads back to the bedroom quickly.

Will looks up as soon as he hears him. His eyes are like windows. His mind is stormy, but the sight of Hannibal reflects like firelight. Hannibal pours him a drink and sits back in bed beside him to pour his own. He watches Will knock it back in two gulps and then hold his glass out silently for more.

He gives him a refill, counselling, "Slowly, darling."

Will gives him a look that Hannibal might find stinging if he wasn't inherently fond of all his aspects. As it is, it merely makes him want to distract him with something other than whiskey.

Will catches his eye as he sips his second drink at a more sedate pace. "What is it-?"

"I am thinking of you, that is all."

"Gonna be more specific than that?"

"The many ways in which I continue to want you daily," Hannibal replies calmly.

Will looks a bit surprised. "Assume you don't just mean sexually."

"Not merely," Hannibal allows.

"Elaborate for me, thinking is hard right now."

Hannibal sighs. "Well, that is one way."

"I don't follow." Will rubs his eyes. "Do you ever just answer a question?"

"No," Hannibal smiles small. "Your very presence, Will, is - necessary to me now."

Will gives him another long look and then nods. "I know. I feel the same."

Hannibal feels a rush of pleasure at the admission. Will sighs again, visibly wearied by the weight of Hannibal's secret- unbegrudging but remorseful nonetheless. He holds out an arm.

"Come here."

Hannibal presses close with no embarrassment. He inhales slowly, scenting Will and whiskey. Will burrows his nose in his hair in turn.

"When I was a kid, I tried to kill someone," he says, voice barely above a whisper, tone low. "A guy at school who was giving me a hard time- it went on for weeks. One day he pushes me, and I go down, and I’m so furious- full to the brim with hatred and frustration. My dad had given me this flick knife- it wasn't for carrying, it was for when we went on fishing trips, but I had it on me." He takes a deep, steadying breath. "So I vault back up off the ground and I pull the knife and I stick this guy as hard as I could in the stomach."

Hannibal takes a moment to picture the scene, Will’s boyish face, tousle-haired and snarling, eyes startlingly blue set in pink cheeks and golden curls.

Adult Will rubs his eyes. "It didn't do much, it was a- a dull little blade. The guy had a few stitches. I was terrified- avoided him for days thinking I'd get arrested, carted off somewhere. But he didn't tell anyone. Said he'd had an accident, fallen on some glass."

"How did it make you feel, after?" Hannibal asks calmly, still expectant.

"I didn't regret it," Will mutters. "I think if it'd gone differently, I would have gone to juvie, to prison- whatever. Maybe I should have. They say that a lot of psychopaths go into law enforcement."

"Is that how you see yourself?"

Will crooks a dry smile at him. "You know I don't have any clear idea of who I am."

Hannibal closes his eyes. "You're mine," he murmurs. He feels the shiver that goes through Will at the words.

"For better or for worse."

It's Hannibal's turn to shiver. He feels Will's arm tighten around him.

"Is that what you want?"

Hannibal looks up at him. "With every atom in me."

There's something dark in Will's face, but also warm and yearning. He slides his fingers into Hannibal's hair and kisses him deeply. Hannibal allows himself to savor the feeling. He's not precisely sure why he feels he needs to. But Will's a live wire in his arms, deadly and bright.

Their drinks are clumsily set aside before long, bodies twining together. Hannibal tastes Will's fear in the back of his own mouth like vinegar, but it's tempered by the sweetness of his touch. He may never say it, but Hannibal feels the all-consuming touch of his love.

It doesn't subside, but the ferocity ebbs. Will nips his lower lip between his teeth as he steadies beside him.

"What happens now?"

"What would you like to happen?"

"I guess for things to go on as normal. We go to sleep. Go to work. Nothing changes more than it has to."

Hannibal nods slowly. "What has to change?"

Will sighs and tucks himself down against him. "I don't know yet. Time will tell."

Hannibal is… disturbed, but resigned.

"Can we sleep?" Will asks.

Hannibal strokes his hair thoughtfully. "Of course." He won't, but Will should.

His grateful sigh is a familiar needle of hope; the soft sounds he makes as he relaxes against Hannibal's chest. Hannibal holds him and keeps watching the branches move outside his bedroom windows. He replays their conversation over and over, until his eyelids start to droop. He falls asleep before he's decided what to do about it.

*

Neither of them sleep well, but it's Will that's in the shower when Hannibal resigns himself to wakefulness at dawn. He picks up his tablet to read instead. It's easier to maintain an air of relaxation that way when Will comes out of the bathroom in his khakis, looking around distractedly for his glasses. His bare chest yields bruises from Hannibal's teeth. They're in varying shades of purple, red, and faded yellow. Hannibal regrets that none of them will show above his shirt. The bite on his neck might occasionally flash, if he's not careful. Hannibal finds the prospect terribly interesting. He wishes he could give him another, before he goes. Any other day he might tempt him back into bed. Today, it seems unwise. He watches Will's silent passage back and forth through the room as he gets ready for work.

"Will," he says quietly when he pauses to pick up his shoes.

"Yeah?" He looks at him.

"Have a good day at work.”

Will's expression softens, and then he huffs a bit. "Unlikely." He bends to kiss him.

Hannibal returns it, keeps him close long enough to nip him lightly. That finally gets a faint smile. Will touches his cheek.

"See you later."

Hannibal nods, waiting until he's heard the kitchen door close before getting out of bed himself. He takes care of his ablutions, dresses, and then heads out to the car. He has work of his own to do. And not at the hospital.

His GPS guides him out of New Orleans entirely, onto the I-10 W toward Baton Rouge. It's a pleasant morning, early enough that the heat hasn't baked the surrounding countryside. Hannibal considers his options carefully as he drives. It's easier away from Will's heady influence.

Will knows. Hannibal has told him - not everything - but enough of the truth that his lovely mind is surely capable of finding the rest. Hannibal can practically see him ruminating on what to do with his newfound weapon. His conscience still roiling in conflict with his innate cruelty is obvious whenever Hannibal looks at him.

Hannibal is intrigued to see in which direction he takes things next. He's sure he won't be disappointed. But precautions on his part are wise as well. Hence his visit.

He's been assured by the realtor that the house he's bought- the house Will built as a young man, when his father died- had stood empty for several months. He'd made the purchase through one of his shell accounts, as usual, and his realtor is loyal - or, ultimately, disposable. But he is eager to see the place for many reasons. If he knows his boy as well as he thinks he does, there'll be things to find.

The GPS leads him down several country roads of dubious paving, finally down a long driveway to a cabin set back against a finger of the bayou. It's exactly what Hannibal imagined, well put together and almost stubbornly plain. Subsequent owners have planted flowering vines and hung bird feeders, but Hannibal only has eyes for the lines of it. Completely, utterly Will- simply presented, and currently full of secrets.

Hannibal draws the key from his pocket and climbs the steps to the porch. No furniture inside, but that's no matter. He's not here for that.

He goes to the kitchen to check the drawers. Nothing but crumbs. He moves through to the bedroom- indicated by the abandoned divan in the corner- and finally sees what he's looking for: a black iron handle attached to the floor. When he pushes the bed frame out of the way and tugs, the door to the drop creaks with age. The steps to the crawl space beneath the house are choked with so much dust that they clearly haven't been used for years.

Hannibal smiles and wonders if Will kitted the little storage space out himself. He uses the flash on his cell phone to light his way as he descends. Crouching to fit, looking around, he smiles. He can work with this. It's small, stacked with shelves, but he won't need much room for what he's got in mind. A crate in the corner, perhaps, with a few identifiable personal belongings from people Hannibal knows are likely to be found on missing persons lists. A hair here and there. Fingernails. Zip ties, perhaps. The bayou out back is the perfect reason for the absence of bodies.

He considers the space, and then starts back up the steps. He stands in the middle of the empty living room for a moment, eyes closed. He can imagine Will as crisply as he remembers him this morning.

He hopes Will won't betray him. He'd like to bring him here under more pleasant circumstances, to see his face in this neat and echoing room. He'd like to be able to trust him. To keep him, forever. He sighs at the thought: there are of course other ways to keep him. Hannibal knows even without the benefits of his exercise regimen and Hannibal’s cooking, he would taste exceptional.

He does another circle of the little house, taking in the little tells of Will’s work – built in book shelves, a sturdy utility room with a peg board for tools and fishing gear - then revisits the bedroom closet and raises his phone light again. This place fascinates him. He peers around and pauses at the sight of letters carved low into the skirting in the corner. He goes to his knees to touch them.

"Will," he whispers. It’s a little flash of Will's childhood, carving his initials into every home he and his father traipsed through. He suspects there are many little W. G.s carved into skirting boards all across the South. He fervently wishes he could touch them all.

Fond at the idea, he stands again. He heads out and takes a walk around the porch, peering into the surrounding grasses and trees. Yes. This will work well for what he has in mind. He sends Will a message, standing in the too-long grass of the yard.

_Have you got a minute?_

_For you,_ Will replies.

Hannibal hits call and raises the phone to his ear. Will sounds gravelly when he answers, like he's been talking too much.

"Are you all right?"

"Perfectly, are you?" Hannibal lets concern bleed through.

"Yeah, just a long morning. Got a couple of leads on my Cemetery Killer but follow-through is uh… A little sporadic. Not entirely helpful. Where are you, at home?"

"I decided to take another day off," Hannibal diverts smoothly. "I hope you won't think too badly of my work ethic."

"I think you deserve to recover a little. Did you - were you just calling to say hi?"

"Is that allowed?"

"Of course it is. I was just worried."

"Don't worry about me, Will, I am perfectly well. I was merely thinking of you."

That makes him sound a bit breathless. "Yeah. I've been thinking of you, too."

"Good things, I hope."

"For the most part."

Hannibal hums. "Can I help?"

"I'm not mentally trying you, Hannibal."

"I appreciate the reassurance."

Will is quiet for a moment, then he sighs. "I was missing you, actually. Being here is like... being in a dark room."

"You don't care for the dark?"

"It's not being in the dark- it's not knowing when I'll get out of it again."

"I understand," Hannibal says. He certainly does. Will sighs.

"I don't know what time I'll finish tonight. Don't worry if I'm late, okay?"

"My door is always open."

"I know. Thanks."

"Take care, Will."

"You, too." He sounds tired but genuine. "Goodbye."

Hannibal tucks his phone away after he hangs up and takes a moment. His instinct tells him Will can keep his secret. He wouldn't have told him if he wasn't sure. If it changes him- changes them- perhaps he'll have to take his chances with that.

He heads back to the car after locking up the house, satisfied. He'll go home and do some cooking in case Will makes it home for dinner.

*

It's long since cooled and refrigerated when Will gets home, face set with exhaustion and his answers short. Even so, he kisses Hannibal hello. Hannibal allows himself to stroke gently through tousled curls at his temple.

"Let me get you a drink. Have you eaten?"

"In the cafeteria," Will sighs.

With Beverly, Hannibal thinks. He smells her on Will most days now. He finds it irritating while realizing it is a necessary evil.

"Just a drink then."

Will nods, leaning against Hannibal's shoulder. "I missed you."

"And I, you. Come sit down."

Will trails Hannibal to the sitting room obediently, and Hannibal fixes him a drink. He's had a few glasses of wine already himself, and he tops up his current glass again now. He doesn't usually indulge in anything that might dull his senses too much, but when the clock hit eleven and there was no sign of Will, he had started to feel agitated. It's an unfamiliar feeling, still. Like an itch under his skin.

Will takes his drink with a soft, grateful murmur and drops his head back against the backrest after he's taken the first long sip. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." He sits in his own matching armchair instead of on the couch. That seems to make Will unhappy, but he doesn't speak. Hannibal is sympathetic, but at the moment, unwilling to indulge anyone's dramatics but his own.

They're both silent for a long while. Will raises his eyes to the dark ceiling. "What are you thinking about?" he asks eventually.

"A broad question. Do you mean to ask if I'm thinking about you?"

Will narrows his eyes. "Do you think I am?"

"I think you are unsure about something."

"I'm just… Is it worth it to you? When I come home late and exhausted?"

"You tell me. I've stayed late at the hospital before, come home in similar states myself. As you well know."

"I just need to know -" Will finally looks at him. "It's worth it to me. I understand myself when I'm here."

Hannibal tilts his head. Will's insecurities don't often make themselves known. "Before I met you, I considered myself a better person alone, Will. You must see that now I harbor no such misgivings."

"I. I guess so.”

"Do you think I would let you know me as I do if I considered you unworthy?"

"I think you'd be curious to see what I'd do."

Hannibal can't quite restrain his smile. He's just glad the fierce beats of his heart remain a secret at this distance. "Don't we all test our beloveds? The shape and space of their love for us?"

"Most people's tests aren't - sharp," Will darts a look over at him.

"I'd hazard they're just as sharp but much less meaningful."

"Guess you could have been reading my text messages," Will agrees, tiredly.

"I don't need to," Hannibal replies.

"No. You don't." Will sighs. "And I don't think it was a test. I think it's something you've carried around with you for a long time. You don't feel guilty- and you shouldn't- but it's something you couldn't tell anyone else."

"Sometimes I feel I could tell you anything, but I wonder if I should. You hold enough in that beautiful head of yours."

Will's expression flickers with the barest trace of wariness. "You can tell me whatever you want to, Hannibal."

Hannibal sips his wine and studies the painting over the mantel. "I find myself jealous of your job," he murmurs.

It’s clearly not what Will expected, but he catches up quickly. "You don't like that I understand other people just through seeing what they've left for me."

_I am better than all of them_ , Hannibal wants to say. He restrains himself. "You spend your days knowing people so thoroughly. Difficult to compete with that kind of intimacy."

"I'm - Hannibal," Will sighs.

"I worry about you," Hannibal adds softly.

"I know."

Will fidgets a bit, and then sighs. "I had a call today from the FBI academy."

Hannibal pauses with his glass near his lips.

"I've done some work for them before- consulting," he sighs, "but it was the head of the Psychology department letting me know about a job opening there."

"A flattering offer.”

"Or an unflattering one. Teaching posts are considered retirement for detectives."

"Perhaps by some," Hannibal allows.

Will shrugs. "I once wanted to take the entrance exam for the Bureau. No point now. But I suppose this would be another way."

"If you wished to pursue it."

Will nods. He doesn't look convinced. "I don't want to move away from you." Hannibal sips his wine and considers possible responses. Then Will adds, quietly, "I'm not ready to stop what I do. I think I have more to offer and I want to stay here. I always hated moving."

Hannibal sighs. "As you wish."

"What, that's the wrong answer?"

"I don't know, Will. It's not my question to answer."

Will sighs. "No. Can you please come here?" he adds, a bit testily.

After a moment, Hannibal does. He sits carefully next to Will, fixing him with an attentive gaze.

"I'm... this case is wearing me out. I'm sorry."

"Perhaps stopping is -" Hannibal pauses and considers. "Your choice. My apologies."

Will's silence is heavy. Hannibal wonders if what he told him factors into the matter. It's not his to decide, he knows that. But he's never been able to resist manipulations of any kind.

He holds an arm out wordlessly, and Will shifts into his side with a little huff, clearly still sore about Hannibal keeping his distance until now. But Hannibal knows Will would have had him up against the wall if he hadn't, and as good as it would have been, he needs his wits about him.

It's hard to do when he's verging on tipsy, nearly impossible when they're touching. So he tips his chin with a finger and kisses Will deeply.

"Come to bed," he says.

Will stands and offers Hannibal a hand. They don't talk as they ascend the stairs. They don't have to; they know one another's routine by now. They take their turns cleaning up for bed and when Hannibal emerges from the en suite, Will is waiting for him, gaze darkly focused.

"Come here," he demands, tone a mimicry of Hannibal's soft order from before.

Savoring the sound, committing it to memory, Hannibal goes. "Yes, my love?"

Will pulls him onto his knees on the mattress with a tug at his hands. He grips the front of his shirt and kisses him hard and graceless. Hannibal allows it, merely moving into his touch long enough to slip out of the shirt. Will tugs off his own, and when they've divested one another of the rest of their clothes, he tugs Hannibal close again with purpose.

"What do you want, Will?"

"I want you to hurt me," Will breathes. "I want you to fuck me."

Hannibal lays one hand firmly over the base of his throat and squeezes lightly. "Tell me how."

"However you want."

"Don't say that. Tell me how."

Will shakes his head. "I don't want to choose. I want you to give it to me."

"That's a great deal of trust, Will."

"Yes, it is."

It's darkly, consumingly thrilling, to be given such a thing. Hannibal closes the space between them again and kisses him slow. Will grips at him like a lifeline until he pulls back, voice carefully steady.

“I need you to give me a word that means stop then, Will.”

No scoff, no _Jesus, Hannibal_ like he other times might. Will wets his lips with his tongue and just nods.

“Alligator,” he tells him. Hannibal doesn’t let the fierce flood of carnal heat that strikes him show on his face.

"Very well. Hold still.”

Standing on unsteady legs, Hannibal goes, retrieving an old tie from his closet, along with a towel. When he offers the items up for inspection, Will bites his lip but nods. Hannibal ties his hands together above his head, fastening him securely to the headboard. He takes his time about it, silently moving him into place, testing the loops on his wrists for circulation. Will just watches, gaze expectant. Perhaps even excited. Hannibal is flooded by the cool realization that this might be some kind of test. He intends to pass it.

He smiles. It's not a polite smile. Will shifts a little, testing the ties. Hannibal strokes the backs of his knuckles up his thigh and waits.

He doesn't get any protest, just a steady nod again. From another drawer, Hannibal retrieves a small folding knife – not the one he keeps on his person usually: Will has been following the Bayou Butcher’s murders closely, and a hooked blade would likely be too much of a coincidence for him to ignore. This is a neat, compact buck knife with a gleaming curved edge. Will looks at it fleetingly, but he doesn't give any noticeable signs of panic.

"You keep that next to the bed?"

"Yes," Hannibal says evenly. "I was threatened not too long ago, don't forget."

"How could I?"

Hannibal kisses him gently. "I didn't think you would."

He sees Will relax even as he flips open the blade. He's still got his eyes on it, though. Hannibal places the edge of the blade against his collarbone, the tip digging in gently.

"Do you still trust me?"

"Yes," Will mutters, "of course."

"And if I want to see you bleed?"

"I asked you to hurt me. That definitely falls under the category."

Hannibal gets up once more and goes to the bathroom for some alcohol to clean the blade, feeling Will's eyes follow him.

"Sufficiently prepared, Doctor?" he asks dryly, when Hannibal returns.

"To safeguard your health? Yes, thank you."

He kneels over Will's hips carefully. The blade feels perfect in his hand, weighty and sharp. Will takes a deep breath, and Hannibal's hand follows the curve of one of Will's ribs, tracing a thin line. It draws blood just barely, but it's not a deep cut- it beads like raindrops on spiderweb silk. Will looks down at it, still now. Watching his face carefully, Hannibal repeats it beneath, deeper this time, neat and precise. It takes a moment before the pain registers.

Will's lip curls to bare his incisors. Hannibal's eyes widen, just a fraction.

"Hannibal. Don't stop.”

"No, not yet."

He makes another parallel incision, making patterns over his bones. This one is deep enough that Will hisses through his teeth at the sting even as Hannibal moves to give him another. He's careful not to touch any of the welling cuts; not to close his mouth over them and lick up the taste of him and feel him flinch. He must resist. Will would almost certainly see too much, then. But Hannibal wants it, so very much.

Will's teeth are bared against the discomfort now, cheeks flush and sweat starting to dampen his curls. He watches Hannibal unwaveringly.

"Have you had enough?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will shakes his head quickly. "More. Please."

Hannibal studies him for a moment before balancing the knife on his sternum. At the angle, it might nick Will if it were to fall. His hands trail lower. Will shivers under the touch, a flush staining his cheeks prettily.

"We're going to do something different for a minute."

"Okay." Will swallows audibly, but he’s making himself focus, even with the unmistakable fog of the drop clouding his eyes. "What's that?"

"I'm going to get you ready for me," Hannibal explains. That makes Will look… maybe suspicious, like he's certain there's a catch. Hannibal reaches for lube and slicks his fingers well. When he touches his dry hand to the inside of Will's knee, he absorbs the sight of him spreading his legs, gorging himself on the image. Will arches his back at the same time, but the knife doesn't slip.

"Don't let it fall," Hannibal tells him. “The damage would not be significant, but I do not want blood on my sheets, understood? You must tell me if you need me to stop.”

Will makes a noise low in his throat and nods. He holds still as Hannibal spreads slick between his cheeks, belly tremoring when he massages his rim gently. He whines as Hannibal presses inside.

"Too much already?" Hannibal asks.

"You know it's not."

"Not enough?"

"Not fast enough," Will snips.

"Was it ever implied that the choice was yours?" It's a pure pleasure to watch him shiver at the words.

"No."

"Well, then." Hannibal sinks another finger into him. Will whimpers again, feet tilting inward, toes pointed. "You feel good," Hannibal murmurs.

"So do you," Will breathes. The wounds on his side are still bleeding sluggishly.

Hannibal presses in slowly, but firmly. He twists his fingers carefully and Will judders.

Both of their eyes go to the gleam of the knife. It merely wobbles. Hannibal crooks his fingers in response.

"Ah- Hannibal-"

Hannibal places his fingers on the hilt of the knife.

It shakes a little moan out of Will, the momentary relief. Hannibal makes a soothing noise.

"Stay still for me." Will nods. Hannibal presses deeper. He wants to see his face change.

The patient search of his fingertips is rewarded by the drawing of Will's brow; a flush spreading across the bridge of his nose as his mouth slacks open. Where he’d only been firming up throughout their play before, now his cock fills out quickly, arcing up from the cradle of his hip, already blushed. Hannibal smiles.

"Very good. Keep breathing." He repeats the motion until Will's eyelids fall and his breath goes raspy.

"Fuck, Hannibal," he says softly, after a few minutes. “Please-”

Hannibal slowly picks up the knife and hovers the tip between his collarbones so that when Will breathes too deeply, it pricks his skin.

"Yes, Will?"

A jolt causes a little cut, and Will gasps. It makes him rightly tremble, cock twitching as he sways between horror and desire. He makes a soft, stuttering noise, sweet as a fawn. Hannibal fucks his fingers into him faster for a few seconds to hear him moan.

"What do you see, Will?"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, breathing ragged, voice fractured. "Nothing-"

"Truth?"

Will breathes out hard, almost a huff. “ _Yes._ ”

Hannibal stills his fingers and presses the blade in until skin parts, startling a whimper out of Will. He shifts the blade to the right and presses harder, making a single, diagonal cut down over his heart and watching blood well.

"I won't hurt you more than you ask me to," he reminds him, softly, “we can stop whenever you want.”

Will's arms tense.

"Enough," he sighs, finally. Hannibal desists immediately, studying Will's face, concerned until Will gives him a slow smile. "C'mere?"

Hannibal sets the blade aside and moves up to his chest, extracting his fingers carefully and using the towel he brought to wipe his hands and, careful to avoid cross contamination, dab some of the drying blood around Will’s wounds. Will leans up and kisses him, so softly Hannibal feels blessed by it.

"Hannibal," he sighs.

"Tell me."

"Fuck me now."

Hannibal hums, shot by the command.

"Yes, Will."

He leans down for another soft kiss. He applies more lube, slipping his fingers back inside, three this time. Will whines gratefully as he strokes his prostate, keeping his movements steady until he's wriggling his hips for more. The lube is starting to thin, so he adds more before he gives him a fourth finger and stretches him in earnest, twisting them and flexing his hand, feeling the muscle slowly give. Will's thighs are shaking by the time he's finished.

"Good boy," Hannibal praises.

"Please," Will pleads, gruff and resentful with it, cock beading with fluid. Hannibal breathes in the scent of him before he pulls back and slicks himself. Will's thighs are trembling as he wraps them around Hannibal's waist. When he lines up and thrusts in, it feels unaccountably right. Will clings with his legs in place of his hands.

When Hannibal starts to move, he hears Will hiss his name through his teeth. Hannibal sets his clean hand over Will's heart. The cold-snap scent of his blood rises up, drying tracks sticking to Hannibal's palm. He flexes his hips once, then again, feeling Will's body open for him, releasing a wounded groan, his hands flexing in their bonds.

Hannibal looks at the pink chafing around his wrists and wets his lips, hips going a fraction faster. There’s a fresh swell of blood when he presses down with his palm, making Will gasp and blurt his name again softly.

“Nnn- _ohgod-_ Hannibal, hurts-”

"You know what to say if you want me to stop. Tell me," he whispers in Will's ear, "is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," Will promises, voice almost slurred, hips desperately rocking up for his thrusts. Hannibal kisses his neck before working his hips harder, drugged by the feeling of Will’s body clutching him, drawing him back in. When he looks down, he sees his rim stretched around his cock, resisting his withdrawal when he pulls back, only to slip deeply back in. “Oh god-”

The quiet between them is laden with intensity, punctuated only by Will's rough breaths. His hands wring the air for purchase. Hannibal has to pull back slightly to watch his body struggle and submit, and Will meets his gaze and bares his teeth again, their eyes locking as Hannibal grips Will's hips and fucks him faster until his silent growl turns into a cry of need. Hannibal isn't above cheap tricks; he shifts his angle and thrusts again until he goes boneless, eyes flickering shut and cock pulsing. After another long minute, he finally finds his voice again, cracked at the end.

"Hannibal- please-"

Turning his nose into his hairline, Hannibal can smell his sweat and arousal and hurt. Along with the tang of copper, it is a divine fragrance. He pulls out just to gently reposition Will on his uninjured side, hips close to the mattress and thighs together. Supporting himself on one arm, Hannibal uses the other to palm his cheek, opening him up again where he gapes from Hannibal’s cock so he can slide easily back inside, smile turning knowing at the yelp of approval Will gives at the angle. He'd like the pleasure to erase everything else.

“Ohh- Hannibal, yeah, yes, _fu-uck_ …”

He thrusts hard, fucking into him without a pause for him to recover. Will swears under his breath, clenching and squirming underneath him and holding onto the tie for support now. He moans more freely after the next few thrusts: pointing his face away from Hannibal has the intended effect of distracting him from anything but feeling him inside.

"Come for me," Hannibal murmurs. He bottoms out and stays there for a moment, just grinding deeper and hearing Will's little cry.

"Close," he hisses.

Hannibal squeezes his wasit with remorseless fingers and slams into him, his own peak gathering in his core, flooding like a dam about to burst - but he'll wait for Will. He leans down at the thought and bites hard into the meat of his shoulder, triggering a weak cry and a spike in his hormones that Hannibal can smell like notes of summer on the air. He takes a deep breath the scent and keeps going, fast, short and shallow where he's pressed deep. Soon Will tightens up almost impossibly around him, jaw dropping. His choked shout is everything Hannibal could wish for, and when he drops a hand to stroke him Will is already coming and clenching, clamping down on Hannibal inside, shuddering through it long and sweet.

Hannibal keeps thrusting through the waves. Will blindly hooks his calf over Hannibal's to keep him close as he brings himself off with his body, tucking his face against Will's neck. It's Will's soft plea of his name that gets him, a crude yank in his gut that triggers the flash flood of his orgasm. He clutches unapologetically and lets himself drown in it as he gluts Will with his come.

Will's knuckles are white on the tie when Hannibal resurfaces from it, red making rings on his wrists. Even so, he noses back at him, stubble bristling against Hannibal's cheek.

Hannibal sighs out a breath, fumbling for the knife. He slits the tie neatly and gathers Will into his arms.

He can feel the pliancy; a heaviness in his limbs when he tucks his face unabashedly into Hannibal's chest. He wonders how long it will take him to come back up for air. It's pleasing, to see him so immersed. Hannibal will hold him until he does.

It takes a long time, Hannibal’s hands moving steadily over his back, stroking and soothing. Eventually, Will squeezes at Hannibal's back gently with a sigh that lets him know he’s almost back with him.

“That was unbelievable.”

"It was. I should clean your cuts," Hannibal warns him.

"I know. Don't go yet?"

Hannibal shakes his head gently. He cups the back of Will's skull and feels the heat of his brain inside; imagines weighing it in his hands. He thinks he'd like to see it sometime. It would be beautiful, he's sure of it. He wonders how it would taste. Will stirs in his arms like he senses it, and Hannibal combs through his curls, soft and too-long, until Will relaxes again slowly, in tiny instances.

"I love you," he tells Hannibal then, sounding scared of it.

Hannibal, who knows only what his own love feels like, doesn't blame him for it. He holds him tighter in his arms, closing his eyes against the fierce tide in him.

"I adore you," he says, pressing kisses into his hair.

Will sighs. Hannibal thinks he means both the wounds and the feeling when he says, "It hurts.”

"I know," Hannibal breathes, "I'm sorry." He means it. His chest aches, like Will has carved him as deep as Hannibal has only imagined carving him.

Carefully peeling himself free, he gets up only to retrieve his first aid kit, bringing it back to kneel beside Will, kissing his shoulder while he gets his supplies out.

Most of the cuts are too thin and shallow to need more than a good cleansing, but the one over his heart is deep. Hannibal closes it carefully with adhesive strips, sensing Will's gaze following the path of his hands. When the wound is dressed in gauze, he bends and kisses an unmarred patch on his sternum.

"There.”

Will curls his hands into his hair and holds him close. "Thank you. We should sleep."

"Yes. Let me get you some water and some painkillers first."

It takes a few moments for Will to let go, but he takes the pills and drinks the water obediently when Hannibal returns from the bathroom after putting the kit away again. He's already peppered in little bruises, and he's the most beautiful thing Hannibal could imagine.

When the lights are off and they're settled back together, bodies tessellated like tiles, Will's hand finds his in the dark and squeezes. Hannibal squeezes back.

Despite the late hour and the exhaustion, neither of them fall asleep for a long time. Hannibal senses it immediately when Will finally does drift, surprised he's outlasted him. He's awake long enough after that he manages to soothe Will through the start of his nightmares.


	9. Chapter 9

Leaving Hannibal's house in the mornings has become fraught with unhappiness. Will stews in it in the car where he's parked up at the precinct, cradling his customary thermos to his chest for warmth before he has to go inside. He's crushed and pulverized by the desire to flee.

Even Bev's smiles can't warm him, and they're less frequent since Bianchi has started sending Thibodeau pointed emails mentioning the FBI. The Cemetery Killer case is starting to make ripples, and even Will's good reputation can't stave off escalating interest.

There's a note on his desk when he finally gets inside. Will has to rub tiredly at his eyes under his glasses before he reads it: Thibodeau wants to meet.

Dutifully traipsing to his office, Will clutches his coffee subconsciously against the slits on his ribs. He's been pressing on the healing cuts for days, even as they slowly disappear.

As she is wont to do, Beverley had noticed the state he was in that day. She'd asked about it, in a roundabout way. Will still isn't feeling up to sharing. He doesn't want to be judged at all, even kindly.

Especially not by Thibodeau, who regards Will over his glasses as he beckons him in on his knock.

"Bev?" he asks shortly.

"I've not seen her yet. Should we wait for her?"

"I just wanted a quick update. I had a call from the Bureau. You're the lead detective, Will. I need to know from you if you think they need to step in. Your name has been enough to keep them back so far, but if you think we need some more men on this, that's okay."

Will shakes his head immediately.

"No, we don't. We're close, Chief."

"How close is close?"

Will wets his lips.

"I can smell him, sir."

"Keep me posted. Another body and I think we won't be able to say no anymore."

Will lets the pressure weigh on him. He needs it. He thinks better under it.

"Yes, sir."

He clutches his thermos tighter and goes to find Beverly. She's just arrived when he runs into her, caught up in traffic if her harried sigh is anything to go by as she follows him to his office.

"What did I miss?"

"The Feds are hounding Thibodeau," he grumbles.

"Oh, what a treat."

"I'm not surprised," Will says. "I would be, if it was me."

"I know. I'm not surprised either."

"I told him to hold them off," Will tells her.

"So we need to get to work."

They eye one another silently for a moment and then open file folders again.

*

The next forty-eight hours are the longest of Will's life. They spread their evidence over all of the walls of Will's office again; go up to the cafeteria for meals that they bring down and eat at his desk, staring and shooting back and forth and examining every inch of the file from front to back and then back again. The day shift goes home, and then eventually, the night shift too. Thibodeau doesn't bother them again, but Will can feel his expectation on the edges of his mind, goading him.

By late afternoon on the second day, Will is restless. He's fielding polite but insistent texts from Hannibal about his need for sleep, but there's a taste in the back of his mouth like what he gets when he's run five miles, coppery and adrenaline-sharp.

He looks up at the evidence board again, from corpse to corpse, woman, man, child, and-

Something in the case snags in his mind. He runs it around again.

A woman made holy by her sin. A sacrificed child. A man so loathsome a failure he deserved to be spat upon.

"He's making effigies of his life," Will says, suddenly.

Bev sets her pen down on her file. "Come again?"

"They're dioramas of his life," Will blurts again, "the woman who wronged him. Their child. Their child." He rubs his eyes. "The father who failed to protect her."

"The girl's father?" Bev is frowning, but Will just closes her salad container and pushes the keyboard closer to her.

"We need to search cold cases for child deaths in the area that meet the same parameters. He left the child alive, she's the key."

"But she died- she died before we could-"

"Because he left her. Because we didn't find her in time."

Bev pushes Will gently away from the computer when he keeps mumbling.

"Let me. Just- keep talking."

Will's mind feels like it's following the current of a river, winding over rocks and debris. The sound of the keyboard fades out, and Bev doesn't interrupt much. He can't stop seeing it, finally, the whole of it. All he needs now is a face.

"Will," she says finally, touching his arm gently to rouse him, "there's a guy here- he worked at the parent company of the first victim. His daughter went missing ten years ago. He didn't come up in searches for previous offenses because he was the parent of a victim, not a perp."

She moves so he can read the screen while she calls down to cold case storage to get the box. Will reads the file over, and it clicks into place.

"It's him," he breathes, "it has to be."

"At least wait until we can look at the full file," Bev sighs.

"It's him. It fits. He saw her at a meeting, or something, and he saw something in her, something triggered it-" he looks at the dates associated. "The anniversary of the day she went missing, it was a couple of months before the first victim."

"I'm not arguing, Will, we just - there's a lot of follow up we need to do here."

"It's him," Will snaps, "what's to follow up? What do we have to wait for, another body?"

"We need a warrant-"

"Not if he lets us in without one."

"Which he won't do if he's a murderer, Will, we have no idea where he is or what state he's in - he might have already abducted someone, we can't go in gung-ho on this. We have to talk to Thibodeau."

"You talk to Thibodeau. I'll go stake out the last known address."

"Will..."

"Beverly, I have to get a look at this guy."

"You have to wait until I've talked to Thibodeau. I'll call him at home, okay? Just- stay there, god."

He scowls. "Fine."

He watches her go, and then gets to his feet, getting his holster out of his desk drawer and booking it out of the building as fast as he can. He'll call her when he gets there and let her chew him out.

The suspect - Harold Carter - lives an hour out of the city center. Will puts his lights on and drives over the speed limit as much as he can.

*

When he gets there, the street is quiet. The lights are on. Will grits his teeth, fighting his fear of how this could go wrong. He's trained, he's competent.

He thinks fleetingly of Hannibal. What would Hannibal say to him right now? Will sees him as a child, alone in the woods, eyes reflecting flames. His mind jumps to the girl dying in his arms. The girl dying on Hannibal's table. A little girl in the woods being butchered. He unclips his holster and flicks the safety off his pistol.

Slipping silently out of his car, he circles the perimeter of the Carter property, counting exits - two on the ground, probably a crawl space door in the house if the paneling around the foundations of the house is anything to go by.

He can see the man inside, moving from kitchen to living room, lights flicking off in his wake. Will feels a creeping sense of déjà vu as he watches, keeping low behind the hedges, partially cloaked by the plum-dark evening. Carter seems to be alone.

Feeling a buzz against his hip, Will takes his phone out and checks it. There's a single text from Beverly. The preview box reads: _You goddamn idiot!..._

He tucks it away again. She can ream him out later.

Looking around one more time, he walks up the garden path, steps onto the porch, and knocks. He watches through the window as Carter approaches, slowly. He's big, but not unusually so. Bigger than Will in any case. When he answers the door, Will flashes his badge at him.

"Good evening Mr. Carter, I'm Detective Graham from the New Orleans PD. I'm investigating a string of murders in and around the city and wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions."

Carter is good at controlling his face, but not good enough. He looks fleetingly around, then fixes Will with his dark eyes again. A drip of ice goes down Will's spine, charging him. The current they exchange is all he needs to know.

"Please, Detective, tell me how I can help."

"One of the victims, Mary LeBeau, worked for the sister company of your employer – I’m looking into links between them, meetings or conferences. You’re the head of Communications, right?"

“I am.”

“That’s great, Mister Carter. Like I say, it’s cross-referencing, really. We have reason to believe our suspect may have seen Miss LeBeau at work, and so we’re just trying to get a measure of who interacts with who, how often people might cross paths, a timeline so to speak, of the last few months. May I come in?”

He doesn't say, "Am I a suspect?" or “Am I being detained?” Anyone else probably would. He just nods and says, "I'll get my calendar from the kitchen."

Will steps in through the front door – leaving it ajar - and follows him as steadily as he can. Both of them seem to be purposefully slow. Will’s hand tucks under his jacket, going to his gun. He thinks he's watching closely, and he is, but Carter shocks him with his speed when he lurches into motion. Will pulls his gun and moves fast after him: he can't let him get into the crawl space; can't let him trap him down there.

"Mister Carter, stop and put your hands in the air - Carter!"

Carter pivots sharply, and before Will can dodge, his bulk impacts Will soundly, cracking him back into the kitchen wall, his gun skidding across the floor in the scuffle.

His weight is crushing, hands dragging Will off the wall and slamming him back again so his head bounces off the plaster. Will kicks his foot out from under him hard enough to make Carter scream, and they struggle for purchase before they both slide down, trembling and locked with tension. Carter climbs on top of him, held off by Will's rigid arms and arching back.

"I can help you," Will gasps, arms straining, "I know what you were doing-"

"No one has ever helped!" Carter roars. He grabs at the counter above them, his hand flashing back as a streak of silver. He's holding a butcher's knife.

"Your daughter -" Will grabs frantically for his arm, breathing hard, pulse fast as a waterfall. Carter’s face has gone totally blank as he fights Will’s grip on his wrist, his other hand occupied with Will’s kicking legs. "We didn't find her, did we? I know - I understand why you feel like you have to avenge her, but we can help you, we can open the case -" Will knows Carter isn't seeing him at all, all their breath and strength tied up in fighting one another. Will desperately stretches out with his other hand, trying hard to fumble his gun closer, one knee wedging up between their bodies now to keep him back even as Carter grabs for his ankle.

"You made effigies of everyone who failed her, didn't you? Only one missing from the set."

"The cops," Carter spits. He's flecked with spittle, rabid with fury. They're both trembling, teetering in a stalemate until Carter's eyes flick to where Will is scrabbling the gun closer. "You fucking _cunt_ ," he roars. He cracks Will’s grip on his arm sharply with an elbow and the knife comes singing down. Somehow, Will dodges the first swipe. He viciously kicks himself free while Carter wrestles the blade from the floorboards, throwing himself across the floor on his belly to grab his gun, rising and then slapping back down hard when Carter grabs his legs. He twists with his finger on the trigger, aiming blindly in the semi-dark.

The first shot goes wide, but startles Carter enough to throw off his aim, and the knife buries itself in Will's right shoulder instead of his chest. Then, he's close enough that none of the rest miss their mark. Will empties the clip in five ear-ringing cracks. The force knocks Carter back off Will, against the wall, where he clutches his bleeding chest. Will stares at him, hand shaking, and then drops the empty gun.

Still pinned to the floor with the butcher knife, he searches with his uninjured arm for his cell phone, vision clouding, the pain cold and bright and drowning.

Bev's message is still on the screen. He taps frantically at it until a call goes out; until he sees the timer for the connection, though he can't hear Bev's voice.

"Carter is the killer. I need two ambulances," he breathes, as clearly as he can. He takes another rasping breath, the pain cresting as he attempts to lift the phone. "Tell them to take me to Hannibal."

He can't hear Bev's response, but it doesn't matter, she'll hear him. He drops the phone and puts his hand on his shoulder, trying to stifle the pain somehow, like he could put a stopper on his nerves. His head is filling up with static, liquid ice feeling pooling in his chest and belly.

His eyes are fixed on Carter, imagining he can still see him moving... looking... talking. He understands, with startling clarity, the way the world has become to Howard Carter in the aftermath of having his child taken from him. It's a consuming, bitter agony, and it's endless.

*

"Will..! Holy shit-"

He's still talking to him in his mind when he becomes dimly aware of Beverly in the doorway, accompanied by Thibodeau and a team of paramedics. He passes out as soon as one of them touches him, aware of nothing more until the bump of the stretcher out of the ambulance that jolts pain in him; the long, nauseating run down to the surgery ward. He can see Bev walking beside him. He reaches for her.

"Where's Hannibal?"

"He's on his way," she whispers.

"He'll be upset - will you talk to him?"

"Sure thing, champ." He feels her squeeze his hand.

After that, he doesn't take in much, rolling in and out of sleep until a mask comes down from above him and he doesn't wake up again.

*

When he does, drugs have him immobilized like a straitjacket. His head feels thick with clouds. He's half dreaming, standing amongst tall, black-barked trees, the light made blue with fog - or smoke. There’s water, he sees, and within it, a roiling mass of scaled bodies, twisting around human bones. He goes to the water’s edge, peering at his own fractured face in its choppy surface. Something is glinting at the bottom, he thinks, obscured by silt kicked up by flicking reptilian tails. He keeps his gaze trained for long enough that he sees a silver crescent moon in the mud.

He jerks again, back to the hospital room. Something is beeping, and when he tries to turn his head, he whimpers at how difficult it is to move.

"Will. You're awake." Hannibal rises above him, eyes dark with weariness. "I must insist you go easy, my love. You'll strain your stitches."

"Hannibal," he croaks desperately.

"It's all right. I'm here." He touches Will's face with both his hands, and Will grips his wrist weakly with the one that will listen to his brain.

"Where am I? Tulane?"

"No, they didn't want to transport you that far. You're still in Hammond, but I know the doctor who performed your surgery."

"How bad is it?" It was a fucking big knife. Will knows it can't be good.

Hannibal strokes his cheek with his thumb, voice going quiet and formal.

"The knife only nicked the major artery but severed one of the secondaries. The fact that you left it in place seems to have prevented more blood loss, but it was still significant. I haven't had a chance to review your scans yet, but while use of your hand will return as you heal, I'm afraid the nerve damage will also be significant."

Will takes a few deep breaths.

"I'm right-handed," he points out, stupidly. He wonders how long it will be before he can use it again. If he'll be allowed back in the field. Recovery, he knows, will be a matter of months, years. Not weeks.

"I know," Hannibal smooths his damp hair back. "But you're alive." He has a hollow look about him.

Will swallows at the sight, guilt striking like a gong in his chest.

"Are you all right? How long have I been out?"

"Less than a day. It is nearly three in the morning now."

Will blinks back the new wave of exhaustion he feels at the words.

"Has Beverly - what about Carter, do you know-?"

"I know." Hannibal says, shortly. He counters the sharpness by stroking Will's hair back again. His eyes are very black in the green-dim fluorescents. Will shivers.

"Did I kill him?"

Hannibal looks at him for a few seconds, and then shakes his head. "No. He's in critical condition in the ICU."

Will jerks automatically, then regrets it when he has to clench his teeth at the flash of pain. "Here?"

"Yes, downstairs."

"Will he survive?"

"I haven't bothered to ask," Hannibal says coldly.

Will sighs. He nods. "Okay."

Hannibal is exuding menace, and Will wants - needs - his attention back. His love back.

"C'mere," he whispers, grabbing at Hannibal's shirt front gently, "god, I missed you."

"You were unconscious." Hannibal sounds faintly wounded by it.

"I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone in so hard." He sighs. "Is Bev mad, too?"

"She is suitably livid," Hannibal assures him. He bends lower and kisses Will slowly, like he's evincing his aliveness through taste.

Will sighs softly after they part. "God."

"Don't do that again, please," Hannibal says, voice low and even enough that Will knows he's livid, too.

Will laughs woozily. "Go over to a killer's house alone? Noted."

"Will." Hannibal commands his attention again. Will meets his eyes and stops laughing. Through the haze of the medicine, Hannibal's eyes look bottomless. "You're not a one-man weapon anymore, Will," he breathes, voice very soft. "Perhaps before it was you and your work and whiskey, but it isn't now. Do you understand that?"

It takes a moment, but Will finally nods.

"Yeah." He wets his lips. "I'm sorry." He touches Hannibal's hair with his good hand. "I just knew it was him. I was just desperate to stop him." He stares into Hannibal's eyes. "I needed my head back."

"I understand." Hannibal sighs, leaning down to tuck his nose against his temple for a moment. Finally, he straightens. "I'm going to get a nurse to check your dressings. How's the pain?"

"Like I've been stabbed, then drugged."

"Very helpful. I won't be a minute." Hannibal brushes himself down, pausing when he gets to the door of his room. "Miss Katz was quite anxious to see that you were all right. She's waited some time. Can I let her in?"

"Yeah, sure." He's long past pride. He closes his eyes when Hannibal has disappeared, pain throbbing in his chest and neck. It takes only a few minutes for the door to open again.

"Will?"

He cracks his eyes. Beverly looks just as tired as Hannibal had. "Hey."

"I'm so mad at you," she tells him in a rush.

"Get in line." He can't help but grin. Maybe he's a little giddy from the morphine. "How soon after I'd left did you set off?"

"Half-hour, max. I had a bad feeling. Thibodeau isn't sure if he wants to be mad or to adopt you." She shrugs. "Not that Doctor Lecter has let him near you since you got here."

"He's protective."

"I'm sure. Look- I meant to ask," Bev makes a pained face. "Like… you know you're shirtless right now, yeah?"

Will isn't sure where this is going. He gets the bizarre concern he's not wearing pants or something.

"Wondering if I work out, or…?"

"I have seen more bite marks and bruises, but they're usually on my friends who do MMA."

"Oh." Will goes still, not sure what to say to that for a second. "That."

"I mean, the nurses are going to ask if I don't."

Will sighs. He risks a peek down and sure enough, the dressing on the cut over his heart has been changed. "It's consensual," he mutters.

"No judgment if it is," she says quickly.

"It is. It's not - not often, just - y'know. Gets me out of my head sometimes."

She bites her lip. "Okay. Moving on. What do you want me to tell you?"

"Tell me what was in Carter's house."

"Everything we could possibly need to prosecute, if he pulls through. Just like you said, he'd been killing them there before posing them wherever. Had a van in the garage."

"Good. You- are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I've... seen worse, though not on you." Will thinks she means the stab wound.

"Good." He sighs. "Was Hannibal okay tonight?"

"He was once he'd managed to talk to the doctor." She sighs. "I've never seen anyone so pissed. He was so still."

"That checks out."

"He seems calmer now."

"He is. He went to get a nurse."

"I hope you can get out of here soon," Bev says, "but the one positive part of this is - we got him."

"Yeah." Will nods. "We got him." He takes a deep breath.

Hannibal returns then, with a nurse in tow. "Miss Katz, I'm sorry to be discourteous, but would you give us the room?"

"Of course, no problem. Will - I'll keep you in the loop, take care."

"Get some sleep, Bev," Will murmurs. "Thanks for having my back." Then he looks back at Hannibal.

"More uncomfortable now?" Hannibal asks. He stands on Will's good side as the nurse starts to lift back his sheets.

Will sees the moment when she clocks the bruises, but she doesn't react: for all she knows, it could be from the scene.

"It's just when I move. Yeah, hurts though."

"We'll get you some more meds," the nurse assures him. Her name badge says Daisy.

"Thank you." Will sighs. He looks at Hannibal again. "What's the verdict, Doctor?"

"Your doctor will be in to see you in the morning, Will," Hannibal murmurs.

Sighing, Will holds a hand out to him. "I know. I want to hear it from you. I know you've been checking my charts."

With a politely arched brow, Hannibal perches on the edge of the bed and looks at him. Will thinks it might be to distract him from looking at his shoulder while it's exposed to the air.

"You'll be discharged as soon as your blood pressure stabilizes, I believe. Wound care and immobilization will be primary concerns, but I believe I'm qualified to supervise." He laces their fingers delicately. "I'd like you to stay with me while you recover. I'll take some time off."

"You just did," Will protests.

"I don't care," Hannibal says flatly, "you'll need someone with you at first."

Will presses his lips together and nods. He knows an argument he won't win. He squeezes Hannibal's hand with a sigh. Something in his shoulder wrenches and the pain makes him retch.

"Sorry," the nurse murmurs, "I'm going to need to turn you on your side to change the back." She glances at Hannibal, who nods and helps steady him.

"Maybe next time I could just sit up," Will grouses.

"When you're ready," the nurse replies.

Hannibal touches his hips.

"Sitting up with one inoperative shoulder might be tricky in the state you're in, Will."

Will grimaces in response. He's suddenly exhausted, and by the time the nurse lies him back against the pillows, his head is swimming unpleasantly. Hannibal takes his hand again immediately.

"Sleep," he tells him gently, "tomorrow we should be able to go home."

"Will you stay?"

"Yes, love, I'll stay here with you."

Will swallows a few times. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the movement as the nurse injects something into his IV.

"I dreamt of you," he mumbles to Hannibal.

"I'm glad, love."

Will feels a rush of warm relief. It reminds him of being at home. It reminds him of Hannibal. He falls away holding onto his hand, and sleeps long and deeply.

***

Hannibal checks Will's charts again in the early hours, stroking his curls back when he starts to twitch from nightmares and watching the touch gentle him. He's pleased with the repairs the attending surgeon had made to Will's shoulder, but he's concerned about the risk of infection, more so because of the blood loss. All he can do is wait. The itch of it sits like a splinter under his skin, difficult not to worry at. Under that, a thick current of rage.

Howard Carter's presence reverberates in the back of his mind like he's giving off a signal. The halls are quiet, only occasionally interrupted by the swishing of scrubs as night nurses make their rounds.

Hannibal fingers the pass key he'd plucked from the nurse's station earlier, then slips out the door of Will's room like he's going for a smoke break, heading first to the vending machine to get a pack of cigarettes and heading down toward the exit, diverting at the last minute to a staff locker room.

He uses the key on the pass to open a locker and helps himself to the scrubs inside. Once he's dressed, it's easy enough to make his way back up to the ICU and wait for the right time to slip into Carter's room. There's security cameras at either end of the hall but he covers his hair and face with OR masks before he lets himself into the corridor, the lights flickering on overhead with a tinny rattle. He pushes into the room after checking for his whereabouts on the patient board.

The urge to maim the man in the bed is high, but he's come upstairs with only one thing in his pockets: an empty syringe.

He stands over the bed for several long moments, then uncaps the needle, drawing the plunger back on nothing and pressing it into the seal on the cannula in Carter's hand.

He leaves the room as quickly as he entered, withdrawing to an empty room across the hall and waiting. Within moments, the shriek of the ECG sounds. Nurses converge on the room and he listens through the cracked door to the codes they're calling.

Once he's satisfied, he disrobes and goes to the window: he's on the ground floor, and the walk around to the side entrance of the hospital will give him a chance to dispose of his stolen scrubs and ID in a dumpster. He does so carefully, putting the latex gloves back in his pocket, then enters the side door and smiles at the woman at the desk.

"Could you throw this away for me? Fluid ran out while I was out there." He hands her a cheap plastic lighter.

"Sure." She puts it in the trash, listless at the late hour. Hannibal pauses before he proceeds back to Will's room, looking at the signage on the wall.

"I'm sorry to bother you again," he says to the receptionist, "I've lost my bearing. Do you know what floor the recovery ward is on?"

"Fourth," she says, looking up at him and smiling. "Don't hit Four-R on the button, you need a key for that one."

"Much obliged, have a pleasant evening," he bows his chin and makes his way to the elevator.

When he gets back to Will's room, he's still sleeping. He settles himself into the chair by his bed. Distantly, he hears approaching footsteps. He's feigning sleep when the door squeaks, holding onto Will's hand. It squeaks closed again. Hannibal sits in the dark and listens to the ECG monitor and waits for the dawn. He doesn't sleep, finding watching Will more soothing.

*

By the time Will wakes up the next day, Hannibal has confirmed with his doctor about Will's next step on home recovery despite many hours of heel-stepping. Hannibal shudders to think what they would or wouldn't tell him if he weren't a doctor. Just as well that he's here. Will needs him.

It takes a while, but eventually the arrangements are made and, when Will is awake and has been thoroughly checked over, Hannibal gets to take him home.

He sleeps most of the car ride, having been given heavy painkillers in advance. Hannibal is more than happy to keep it that way for now. The longer Will rests before their next conversation, the better: Hannibal has been waiting all day for someone to call and give him the news.

It's Will's captain, Thibodeau, who eventually does. They're home by then, Hannibal having settled Will onto the sofa in his sitting room. Will is dozing in and out of sleep when the phone rings, propped up on several pillows and swaddled in blankets. He answers groggily, and Hannibal pretends to keep reading.

Will sounds confused at first, and then his gaze clears somewhat. He makes a few affirmative noises, gone serious and attentive, and when he hangs up his exhaustion seems to creep back in on him tenfold. When Hannibal looks, his brows are drawn in thought.

"Will?" Hannibal asks evenly. He meets his gaze, eyes the blue of deep water.

"Thibodeau says Carter died last night."

"You did shoot him five times," Hannibal replies.

Will nods, looking at the floor. "He should have survived so we could prosecute."

"He should have died for daring to touch you.” His voice is steady.

Will looks at him. Something passes over his face, dark realization. Hannibal waits to see if he will voice is suspicion, and is quietly thrilled when he does.

"Do I want to know how you did it?" he whispers.

"Did what, Will?"

"Hannibal. Don't."

He falls silent. Will has gone pale. Finally he folds his hands in front of himself. "I'd appreciate hearing what I'm being accused of."

"And I'd appreciate it if you'd spare me the disservice of whatever blank-eyed innocence this is," Will snaps. He's starting to mist with sweat. "I'm a goddamn detective, Hannibal."

"No disservice intended, my love," Hannibal murmurs, pleased at his connection. Will wipes his face.

"Hannibal. What did you do?"

"I induced a heart attack via air embolism," he replies, matter of fact. Will takes a few deep breaths. He covers his eyes with his hand.

"Of course you did."

"Of course I did." He watches Will closely, tilting his head. He's curious what happens next; scintillated to know Will sussed him out immediately. He must know him more thoroughly than Hannibal imagined. He is a treasure beyond price.

Tipping his head back against the arm of the couch, Will looks at the ceiling now, hand migrating from his nose down to his beard, here in force after a few days of neglect. Hannibal will get him sorted later, after a bath.

He doesn't speak for a long time, and eventually Hannibal shifts to move closer. Will doesn't flinch. His eyes slide to Hannibal, expression thoroughly jaded.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs.

"Hannibal."

"Say something."

Will takes a deep breath. He lets the silence stretch for another minute before he finds his words.

"I'm a cop. I'm meant to do everything I can to serve and protect," he says, shakily, "but I didn't. I went in there ready to pull my gun. When he started running, I had this moment... this pure relief, because if he attacked me, it meant I could shoot him."

Hannibal waits, attentive. Will sighs again.

"He should have been punished for what he did to those people. Not for what he did to me. Because I was prepared to do the same... the others were innocent."

"I don't care about their lives, I care about your life," Hannibal says, a repetition like a prayer.

"I know." Will watches him. "But Hannibal- I shot him. I carry a badge that says I can make that decision, and it shields me from the law. You don't have a badge. You could go to prison for this. And then it won't matter that it's not just me and work and whiskey anymore, will it?"

"I won't," Hannibal says simply. Will seems to take the certainty as a sign of hostility, because he pinches the bridge of his nose and shrinks a bit where he's lay, dropping it.

"I'm tired. Can I sleep?"

"Allow me to help you bathe first?" The look he gives him now is quietly warning, which Hannibal elects to ignore. "You've been asleep all day. I think a bath will help you feel better. You haven't washed since the other morning."

Will doesn't reply, but he does allow himself to be helped up. He's silent while Hannibal draws him a bath, hunched on the toilet lid with his eyes on the floor. Hannibal feels distinctly uneasy in the gaping quiet.

"Will? Can you stand?" He reaches out for him when the water is hot. Nodding, Will allows himself to be seated in the tub, a thick folded towel behind his back to cushion his shoulder. It feels like moving a doll. Hannibal washes him carefully and clinically, using a jug to sluice suds from his hair with one hand shielding his eyes from the soap. Will has his eyes closed or drooped for the most part, exhaustion radiating off him in waves.

"Are you seeing me kill him?" Hannibal asks eventually, voice soft.

"On repeat."

Hannibal cups his cheek with his damp palm, turning his chin to meet his gaze.

"Is it truly so terrible, to know I will kill for you? Or is it powerful?"

Will licks his lips. "Powerful," he whispers. He sounds broken.

"You deserve it, Will. To know you make me feel that. I'd do it again. I'd do it simply if you asked me to. Is it so unforgivable, to love you that deeply?"

Will's face turns from blank to utterly stricken. Hannibal watches him closely. He doesn't think what he's seeing in Will's face is disgust. It smacks of something else. Even so, he waits on the answer.

"It's just... a heavy thing," he murmurs eventually, "I just need time."

Hannibal nods, a bit displeased. He fortifies his patience with the knowledge that Will has spent his adult life catching killers, only to find he's brought one into his bed: this will be quite the paradigm shift.

Momentarily mollified, he finishes washing Will, urging him back to his feet to rinse and dry him. Will allows it, stepping obediently into the sleep pants Hannibal brings him and then shuffling through to the bedroom. He lets Hannibal arrange him on the bed in a comfortable position. Hannibal touches his wrist.

"Will you allow me to lightly sedate you, to help you rest comfortably?"

"Painkillers are fine," Will mutters, eyes already closed.

Hannibal perches on the edge of the bed, watching him for a long moment. His dismissal is obvious. His scent is hurt. Hannibal waits a beat, and then rises, drawing the curtains and leaving him: he'll let him lick his wounds in peace for a while, and then they'll have dinner.

Downstairs, he turns Will's phone off and pockets it. Best to cut that avenue of communication off for a bit. He busies himself with dinner, checking in on Will occasionally, met every time with the scent of sleep and stress.

It's late evening by the time Will comes downstairs, looking no less exhausted for his efforts. Hannibal still can't help being pleased that he comes down of his own accord.

"Will. You're looking brighter for a rest."

Will eyes him silently, then moves out of the open kitchen door and onto the porch. Hannibal watches him sit down and then turns the gas down so he can make him a cup of tea, movements snatched and prim.

Will takes the mug when it's handed to him and cradles it.

"Thank you." It's barely audible.

Ruffled, Hannibal goes back inside and lets him alone. He goes all the way to his study, where distractions await him. Dinner is almost ready, but he needs the silence for a moment, to gather himself together. He feels off-center. Of all the things he'd anticipated from Will now, being shut out wasn't one of them. Anger, maybe. Righteousness. Fear. But not this particular blend of indifferent and overwrought.

His mind returns to the cabin by the bayou. It would be a shame to have to take Will there for reasons outside of sentimentality.

In the name of distraction, he idles over his tablet for a while, reading Will's press: Hero Cop Shoots Killer After Being Stabbed. Pride surges through him when he sees the photos, no doubt taken without permission by the same incipient reporter who's written the article. Will had painted the wall with Carter's blood.

When he can trust himself, Hannibal goes back to the kitchen and opens the oven to check on the food. Satisfied, he plates up and goes to retrieve his dinner companion.

"Will, do you feel well enough to sit at the table?" He stands in the doorway and watches a shiver go through Will's shoulders.

"Yeah," he says eventually, softly. He eases himself up out of the chair and then grabs his mug with his good hand, his eyes keeping Hannibal from offering to help. Instead, he merely holds the door for him.

"What's for dinner?" Will says stiffly.

"Oven roasted sausage and vegetables; my own recipe, of course."

"Sounds good."

Hannibal pulls his chair out for him and brushes his hair back from his eyes when he sits. He can't make himself stop touching: Will isn't flinching away. He seems unwilling to deprive himself of the comfort Hannibal ultimately provides, even in with his role in his distress, but his eyes are far away.

"I'll be a moment." Hannibal goes to retrieve their food. No wine for Will, with all his medications. He pours mineral water instead.

Despite keeping up with his manners, Will picks at his meal, eyes sunken, movements stiff with pain. Hannibal had chosen this meal for ease of eating one-handed, and had even gone so far as to portion Will's food in advance, so he's not certain for the reason at first.

"Are your painkillers making you nauseous?" he prompts, after examining the reasons at length. At Will's nod, he sighs. "Something gentler on the stomach for our next meal, then."

"I'm sorry. It's fine." Will puts a forkful in his mouth and chews.

Hannibal sips his wine and does the same, frowning internally.

"Are you going into the woods, Will?" he murmurs.

"Should I not?"

"You won't find me there. Not the version of me that sits before you now."

"I already know where to find you."

"So you're trying to escape me."

Will looks up at that, finally. His expression turns hurt.

"No." He shakes his head. "Myself, maybe."

"Call me pedantic, but I'm not sure retreating into your mind is the way to do that. Stay out here with me."

"It hurts out here," Will murmurs.

"Hurt awaits you in there, too, Will. I can help you out here."

"And what kind of help will it be?"

"Whichever kind you need, be it benign or belligerent."

Will finally meets his eyes, his own dark and bottomless. "And who decides what I need?"

Hannibal tilts his head. "You, of course. Though I hope you would find my insight helpful."

Will nods automatically, but his expression doesn't really change. They seem to be at an impasse.

If Will wanted to hurt him, he's picked an effective method. There are few things Hannibal finds more infuriating than monosyllabism. And it's utterly uncharacteristic of Will, who's usually a fascinating conversation partner.

Moderating his irritation, Hannibal continues eating. It will improve. It has to.

After dinner, Will carries plates into the kitchen one-handed, and then recuses himself to the porch again. Hannibal joins him this time. The night is mild and the sky is deep indigo, clouds drifting lazily over a fat yellow moon. Will looks pale and tired but Hannibal can see him steeling himself where he sits. Such pain, from his beloved.

"You're due another dose," he tells him. "Tell me if you want me to get them."

Will just shakes his head. "Before bed."

"Very well." Hannibal nods. It's not so bad, sitting in silence. If only his mind were easy.

"This is what you meant, isn't it?" Will says, then. "About not being bound by self-imposed rules."

"Yes, my love," Hannibal murmurs.

Will sighs softly. "I spend a lot of time thinking about murder. About what makes it murder."

"I imagine you do." Hannibal tilts his head. "I consider this instance self-defense."

Will snorts. "Mine, or yours?"

"He threatened our lives," Hannibal shrugs.

"'Our'?" They exchange a glance, Hannibal's expression confirming. Mollified, Will looks away again. "All right. What would be murder?" he asks after a moment.

"A situation where it was an unwarranted attack, I'd say. In some states, the federal death penalty is still used. What's the difference?"

Will runs his good hand through his hair. "But that's not up to us."

"Perhaps it should be."

Will sighs. He holds out his hand. "That's not how it works, Hannibal." He brushes their fingers together. Hannibal laces them, relieved at the warmth.

"I do not care how it works," Hannibal murmurs.

"I'm getting that." Will sets his jaw, then he sighs and squeezes Hannibal's hand. "I don't want to be alone," he adds in a whisper. "I don't want you to do anything else to jeopardize this."

"I never would."

"Promise me."

Hannibal moves closer. "You have my word." He feels no guilt.

Will sighs again heavily. "Okay."

Hannibal just studies his face for a moment. He looks... calmer. Still remote, still tired. Hannibal grabs a blanket from the back of the chair and stands to drape it gently around his shoulders.

"C'mere," Will murmurs.

Hannibal kneels in front of him. It feels only right to bow his head; feel Will's fingers on his crown. It feels satisfying.

Will tousles his hair loose from its neat style, voice finally taking on a touch of fondness. "You look good like this."

"On my knees? Disheveled?"

"Yeah. Softer around the edges."

"I'm not." He is, though. Only for Will. He seems to know, a smile touching the corner of his sad mouth. Hannibal touches his mouth too. "I said I wouldn't let anyone take you from me," he reminds him, gently. Will nods.

"I believe you." He huffs. "Especially now."

He strokes over Hannibal's temple again. They smile at one another, Hannibal fond, Will shaky but genuine. He lets Hannibal draw him down into a careful kiss. It's tentative, and Hannibal tastes the condition behind it: this isn't the end of this. He wouldn't have expected it to be so easy, truly. He's delighted.

"Will," he says gently, "are you ready for bed?"

"It's still early." He colors a little.

"You're recovering from major surgery."

"I know. I know." He’s visibly perturbed by his own injury.

"Trust me," Hannibal murmurs.

Begrudgingly, Will lets Hannibal herd him upstairs and back to bed. He takes his medications from Hannibal with a slow exhale.

"Can I at least read for a while? You're not tired yet, surely."

"I was planning on going back down to clean up -"

"Oh." Will nods quickly. "All right."

Hannibal touches his cheek. "I can stay, if you'd rather."

Will bites his lip. "Can you-? Maybe just until..." he shrugs.

"Of course."

Hannibal obliges him, getting ready for bed while Will settles down. He picks up a book from Hannibal's nightstand and frowns at the cover. Eventually he must deem it dry enough to lull him to sleep, because he cracks the first page and frowns.

Hannibal holds back a smile. He sits beside Will, and they're quiet for a while before Will looks at him.

"I should call Thibodeau tomorrow. I'll have to talk to HR about all this."

"Surely it can wait a few more days."

"I'd rather just get it out the way."

"Very well," Hannibal sighs.

Will frowns at him. "It's just about how much time I'll need off, Hannibal. It's for my insurance."

Hannibal nods and strokes his hair. "I just want you to safeguard your mind."

"You're the only one allowed in there?" Will snarks softly.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "Will."

He sighs and looks down. "Sorry."

Hannibal squeezes the nape of his neck. "Go back to your book."

Will looks at him balefully. "I said I was sorry."

Even now, Hannibal can't help but indulge him. He hates to see him this way, hurt by someone else's filthy hands and sorry for himself. "It's all right." He strokes through a loose curl.

Will leans, and Hannibal shifts closer to stop him straining, accepting his weight against him. It seems to soothe him. Them.

Will closes his eyes and reaches for Hannibal with his good hand. "I don't think I can do this without you anymore."

"You won't have to."

"Good. Just be patient with me, I need to. Get my head around everything. But I will. Okay?"

"I will help however I can."

Will's turn to raise his eyebrows meaningfully. Hannibal smiles: there he is. He kisses his temple, letting Will settle down against him with a sigh. There's nothing he has to do that can't wait.

Will squints at Hannibal slightly when he presents him with a fully charged phone the next morning. "Have you had that since I've been home?" he says, only slightly peeved, considering.

"Yes," Hannibal says smoothly. He watches him frown at the screen for a second- several notifications had come through when Hannibal turned it on before- and then sigh.

"Thank you." He dials and waits for his call to connect, not bothering to leave the room.

Hannibal politely goes back to folding laundry and pretending not to eavesdrop. They both know the truth.

When he glances, Will eyes him as he talks to Thibodeau. From what Hannibal can gather, no one seems concerned about Carter's death. It's been simply ruled as natural causes. And apparently, they've found enough evidence at the man's home to tie him fairly conclusively to the killings. Hannibal wants to sigh derisively, but not while Will is watching him.

"I think he knew he was gonna get caught eventually. Didn't seem surprised to see me," Will's face goes blank for a few moments. It's clear from the pause that the captain is scolding him for going in alone. "Yes sir, I know sir," he mutters, bowing his head and picking at the embroidery on the bedding. Then he goes still and closes his eyes. "I know it's required, sir. I just don't -" He listens a moment longer, then he puts in, tone icy, "You told me to heat it up. I got him. I can't explain it, I saw it and I knew it was him- it all clicked in. I had to go before he hurt anyone else."

It's so typically Will. Hannibal calmly sets a pile of shirts aside and picks up a stack of briefs to take to a drawer.

He hears Will say, "And when do I have to go for the eval?" He sighs at the answer. There's another pause, and then his expression softens minutely. "Thank you, sir."

When he finally hangs up, Hannibal allows their eyes to meet.

"All good," Will says softly.

"Is it?"

"Yeah. It's fine." Will rubs his eyes. "He had to reprimand me for going in like I did, but nothing more. I think I owe Beverly an apology, it sounds like she covered my ass there."

"We should invite her for dinner," Hannibal suggests.

Will looks up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want you to feel like you have to -"

"She is your friend," Hannibal interrupts softly, "she came after you."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"If she hadn't been so close behind you, things might have worked out differently."

Will goes dull red. "I'll text her."

"What was the last part?" Hannibal asks innocently.

"He just said well done," Will shrugs, flushing further.

"Before that," Hannibal prods, not letting Will purposely misunderstand.

"Which bit, Hannibal?"

"When is your psychiatric evaluation?" Hannibal asks calmly.

"In a couple weeks." Will glances up at him fleetingly. "They want me physically cleared first."

"All right." Will focuses back on the phone in his hand, taps out a quick message to someone. Miss Katz, Hannibal assumes.

"How do you think it will go?" Hannibal asks.

"Well, how would you evaluate someone who had a nervous breakdown six months ago and then went on a suicide mission to catch a serial killer alone?"

"I am not a practicing psychiatrist at the moment," Hannibal starts.

"Neither am I, and I know how it looks."

"What will you do?" Hannibal murmurs.

He's surprised at how bad it feels, watching Will's mouth bow unhappily; his brows draw as he considers his own tattered career.

"Don't know. Doesn't matter, I won't be able to go back to active duty until I can use my arm again anyway." He looks resigned more than anything. There's a grayness to his face; no doubt the pain is back after a night without. He gets out of bed unsteadily and disappears into the bathroom.

Hannibal lets him go; he'll tend to the dressing and the painkillers later, and he knows Will will let him.

*

Will maintains his sullenness over the next couple of weeks, speaking only when prompted and even then without enthusiasm. Hannibal knows he isn't being punished anymore- what he's witnessing is self-flagellation. He is not enjoying it in the slightest. Will is beautiful when he's torn, but this is resignation. He's convinced himself that he's broken.

The solution is simple in theory but rather more complex in practice. Hannibal is forcing himself to be patient.

He's found distraction in other things. Today, it's dinner with Beverly Katz: Will has been unsubtle about his desire to put it off, but Hannibal wouldn't mind an opportunity to see him around a colleague in light of what he knows. And with his doctor in residence, even Will finds it difficult to make excuses of ill health. He's convalescing - not fully, but enough.

He's fighting one-handed with his jeans currently, washed but stubbornly unshaven, damp hair curling around his ears as he tries to do up his buttons. He meets with his physical therapist later this week. Hannibal isn't looking forward to the aftermath. Having Will rely on him while he's still been recovering has been all too easy to get used to. He's even been politely grateful for the help. Of course- he's being careful. Even his quietness has been apologetic. It is making Hannibal want, quietly, to draw blood.

He catches Hannibal's gaze as he finally catches his flies. "Hannibal?" he asks, like he can see his crimson thoughts.

"You look lovely," Hannibal tells him, straightening the collar of his shirt.

"Yeah, the blue of this sling really brings out my eyes."

"Your eyes are astoundingly blue," Hannibal agrees.

Will meets his gaze as his cheeks flush. Hannibal watches his pupils blow minutely; his teeth pinch his lip. He's not lost his favor in that way, at least. Probably part of the issue. They haven't been together in that way, though. Also part of the issue.

"I can't take credit, I'm afraid," Will mutters finally.

"Beauty needs no credit."

Will sighs. He lets himself lean into Hannibal when he steps closer. Hannibal inhales softly, dissecting his scent, and Will gives him the side-eye like he can tell. His expression goes expectant.

Hannibal strokes his hair. He mostly smells like Hannibal's shampoo, a bit like sweat. Frustration laced underneath. "What's wrong, Will?"

Will laughs. "You need me to tell you?" Hannibal waits. Will shakes his head. "Let's not do this now."

"No, you are right, of course. Miss Katz will be here soon."

"Yeah. Thank you for saying she could come here. I'm sorry you've ended up playing host."

"I enjoy hosting dinner parties," he says smoothly.

Will gives him a lingering look over, like he's weighing what that means. "I know. Thank you even so."

"You're quite welcome. Shall we go down and pick a wine for tonight?"

"Sure."

They do. Will doesn't say anything dry or provocative- no 'grapey, with a hint of paint thinner', as on previous occasions- just nods at Hannibal's suggestions and then points at one. Hannibal sets the bottle on the kitchen counter to breathe and opens the oven to check on dinner.

"Would you like to have a glass of wine with dinner? You could take your painkillers a little later."

Will considers it, then nods. "Sounds good. Smells good too," he adds politely.

Hannibal is possessed, not for the first time in recent weeks, by the desire to force a reaction out of Will that is anything but this tragic politeness. The necessary action springs to his mind fully-formed; he only regrets that Miss Katz's visit will prevent its completion today. He swallows his anticipation, and composes himself as the door goes.

"I'll get it," Will says, getting up.

Hannibal nods, turning his attention back to his food. Despite all his best efforts, he ignores his compulsion to hold Will back; to keep him from ever getting near the door again.

He listens to the murmur of their voices, going on for a bit longer than mere greetings would require. Beverly is chatty, he reminds himself, raising his chin with a smile when she precedes Will into the kitchen with a grin of her own.

"Doctor Lecter, so good to see you again. God, it smells good in here." She shakes his hand, and he can feel her gun calluses. She hasn't neglected her weapons certifications like Will has, he feels sure.

He glances to Will at the door. He gives Hannibal a little, tucked smile. _You can relax now._

Hannibal gives him a look right back. Then he looks back to Beverly. "I'm glad you think so. And that you're here. I think Will has been going a little stir crazy with only my company; you're a welcome diversion."

"Oh yes, company, Will's favorite thing," Beverly teases. "Well, I rarely give him a choice."

"I do so love to be talked about like I'm deaf as well as notoriously asocial," Will puts in.

"One of those is definitely true, Will," Beverly tells him.

Hannibal sets down his roasting sheet and leaves the meat to rest as he goes to the wine. "Can I offer you a drink, Miss Katz?"

"Please and thank you." She smiles.

"There's beer or soft drinks if you'd rather?"

"Nah, I'm a red girl." She accepts two glasses and takes one to Will. "Here you are, soldier."

He smiles automatically, though it rings false. "Thanks. How's work been?"

"Tolerable." She sips her wine. "Bianchi and Thibodeau are bickering over who gets to keep me, it's entertaining."

"Have either of them offered you a promotion?"

"Yeah, actually."

Hannibal looks up. Will's expression clarifies in a moment of pained realization. "Guess they'll have the budget for it now," he says, without even an attempt at propriety. It isn't aimed at Beverly, but she blanches.

"Will -" she protests.

"Sorry," he says, shortly. He looks down at his own drink.

She glances helplessly at Hannibal. He gives her a consoling smile. "Will, drink your wine and go and sit down. Miss Katz, I have a job that requires four functioning hands, may I?"

"Happy to help," she replies. She moves around the counter and washes her hands while Will slinks off to the dining room to collect himself.

"He's not been himself the last couple of weeks," Hannibal says softly, by way of apology.

"Longer," she replies softly. They share a look. Hannibal sighs.

"He wants to help people, and he doesn't think he'll be able to now."

She nods. "I get it. For what it's worth, I don't think he's unstable," she adds.

"He's not. Will bears many sorrows other than his own, more effectively than most of us ever could. The only instability he deals with is imbalance."

"You're helping with that," she replies confidently.

"You think so? I'm glad to hear it."

She smiles. "I do."

They complete plating up between them, and Hannibal nods for her to go and join Will while he adds finishing touches: he imagines Will would rather stumble through his apologies without him watching. They both look perfectly content when he appears with three balanced plates.

“I hope you don’t mind, I dispensed with a starter.”

“My fault,” Will puts in, “sitting at the table too long makes me ache right now.”

"Not a problem. God, it's too pretty to eat," Beverly says, "thank you so much."

"It is my pleasure." He feels internally smug. His eyes alight on Will's again briefly, still such a clear sky of blue. 

Will takes a slow sip of his wine when he's finished his first mouthful. Hannibal reflects that it's been weeks since he's had alcohol. He's curious to see how it loosens his tongue.

"Tastes great, babe," he says. It’s not a graceful tact, but it hones the point: he will not be suggesting to Beverly that anything between them is amiss.

She’s humming in agreement when Hannibal narrows his eyes in acknowledgement. "It's so good. I've never had anything like it."

"Proper preparation can elevate even the humblest cuts of meat."

“And what cut is this?”

“Pork cheek,” Will puts in, before Hannibal can open his mouth.

“My mom has made us beef cheek before, but never pork,” Beverly muses, before she takes another enthusiastic mouthful.

“My father used to call the cheeks of animals ‘the oysters’. It’s traditionally the section of dark meat on fowl, just above the thigh, said to be more flavorful.” Hannibal chews his own mouthful thoughtfully. “Pork cheek is a little tougher than most; requires more strenuous efforts to make it yield.”

Will's lashes shade his eyes again. Hannibal sees a strange smile crook at the corner of his mouth, almost hysterical. He takes another bite of his meal.

"My mom was all about proper preparation. Marinades for days," Beverly agrees.

"What was your favorite dish?"

"She still makes yukgaejang whenever I'm home, it's so good. It's basically stew on Korean steroids."

Hannibal smiles and makes a mental note. "I've always liked Korean food but I'm afraid any of my re-creations have paled to the original."

"Lacking the heart of a Korean chef?" Will murmurs. He's chewing slowly and seriously now, eyes on his plate like he’s fathoming its components with more scrutiny than he normally might.

"Maybe you need a lesson. I make great kimchi, and apparently my dumplings are pretty good too." Beverly smiles.

"A kind offer," he replies. He's still watching Will. "I'd love your insight, Miss Katz."

She smiles. "Maybe next time."

She diverts to asking Will about his shoulder; when he's starting physical therapy and what his plans are. She seems determined to push through the awkwardness from before.

Will answers dutifully, though tartly. "I've been fielding calls from the FBI," he says, sounding exhausted, "they still want to know if I'm up for this teaching job- someone must have heard about this incident and decided I've not got many other options."

Hannibal catches Bev not rolling her eyes. "Like that's such a terrible thing. I thought you wanted to work for the FBI?"

Will nods at Hannibal illustratively. "My plans changed." He doesn't sound bitter at all.

Hannibal smiles widely at him, and this time, Will's answering one is real. Hannibal offers him a small toast with his wine before he takes a sip.

After that, conversation is easier. Will seems more mellow for having a glass of wine and Beverly is an adventurous eater and an appreciative guest. Hannibal finds himself starting to warm to her a bit. He should have known he would- Will is an excellent judge of character. In most cases, he thinks, smiling.

Will comes to him in the kitchen before dessert and coffee, touching his waist gently with his good hand. "Hey."

Hannibal looks down. It takes all he has not to cover Will's hand with his own. "Do you need anything-?"

"You must know the answer to that."

Hannibal turns to him, curiosity climbing his spine. "Must I?"

Will looks frustrated at that.

"You often let me assume what you want, Will. It removes your agency. I want you to tell me what it is that I can give you."

"Of course you do." He takes a deep breath. Hannibal waits. Will's fingers tighten. Finally, he leans in and kisses Hannibal like he's answering some kind of mental question.

"I'll never hesitate to give you that," Hannibal laughs softly.

Will sighs and leans into him. "I know, Hannibal."

Hannibal allows himself to be held for a moment. It's not enough. He wants to hollow him out and climb inside.

"Let me finish dessert. Go and take Miss Katz her coffee."

"She'll like that."

Hannibal touches his jaw. "We can talk later. Go."

He does, but it's without the attitude from before. Hannibal is not entirely sure it's completely dissipated. From the next room, he hears Beverly quite clearly groan about the coffee. He shakes his head and retrieves dessert. It'll do them both some good to have some levity.

Beverly provides it in spades while she eats her dessert. "Jesus, tonight has been expensive. I just opened a gym membership on my phone while you were in the kitchen. I'm not kidding." She grins at Hannibal. "So good. I have never eaten anything like this in my life."

"Nor will you," he says. "This is my own recipe."

"I'm trained in interrogation, just so you know."

"Hannibal would be a tough nut to crack," Will chimes in mildly.

Hannibal smiles to himself. "If anyone could get the truth out of me, I'm sure it would be you, Miss Katz." Will raises a brow and Hannibal gives him a smile.

"Will is the one who always cracks them," Beverly puts in, "he's like a mental crowbar."

"He's incomparable." He sees Will's blush.

"Yeah, no one is entirely sure what to call all this," he deflects, gesturing to himself.

Hannibal knows. He must be smiling, because Beverly makes a soft, fond noise. Will blushes even harder.

"If you stop cooing, I'll get you the recipe," he says to Beverly.

She smirks. "No deal. I can't hold it in."

Will sighs and shakes his curls. He looks at Hannibal and they share another smile. After their coffee has finished and Beverly is struggling to stifle her polite yawns, they both rise to bid her goodbye. Hannibal has been impressed with her manners tonight, despite her offhand way of talking to and about Will. He can't help but dislike the way she hugs him as she leaves, hard enough he sees Will flinch, but he supposes it's a good sign.

He himself keeps his hands off of Will. Will doesn't say anything about it until they're cleaned up and getting ready for bed. He has to be helped out of his clothing; skipping a painkiller is visibly catching up with him.

"Thanks for tonight," he says softly, as Hannibal folds his shirt.

"It was my pleasure, my love."

"I know but - it means a lot to me. It... it all means a lot to me."

"Yes?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will nods. He closes his eyes, looking guilty- probably for something out of the left field. "Yes."

Hannibal helps him lie down, then leans down to caress his cheek. Watching him lean into it inspires such a fierce relief that Hannibal can barely contain it. Hannibal has given him so many chances to run. He kneels onto the mattress and sits astride his hips carefully, smiling when Will bites his lip automatically. His hand settles on Hannibal's waist. Hannibal's rests on his chest.

"Hi," Will murmurs.

"Hello, love."

"All right?"

"If you are."

Will nods. "I'm okay."

Hannibal doesn't quite trust him. The platitudes are growing tedious. "Will. Why don't you tell me what the matter is?"

"Why would you think anything is the matter?"

"Will." He lets his impatience flash like the steel of a blade, just barely. "I anticipated a certain amount of reservation. It's in your nature. You hide from shame. But I made you a promise that I would always tell you the truth and I kept that promise. I'd appreciate it if you returned the favor."

"I'm not -" Will's mouth works soundlessly. "I'm not reserved about you."

"Then you're reserved about you."

Will frowns. "In what way?"

"Am I to guess?”

Will's gaze drops. "You seem to think you already know."

"I am positive you do as well."

"Goddamnit, Hannibal!" His eyes go a little wild. "Goddamnit! You killed someone! And I'm a goddamn cop and I feel _fine_ about it. I feel-" he stalls. Hannibal can see his hands are shaking as he raises the left to his face.

"How do you feel? Say it, Will."

"When I realized," Will breathes, eyes closing tight, "when I knew you'd done it for me..."

"Say it."

Will swallows. "I don't want to. I shouldn't want to."

Hannibal aches to _push_. He touches Will's jaw gently, stalling when he knocks his hand away.

"Hannibal."

Hannibal feels himself shut down. "Fine." He pushes himself off the bed. Will sets his jaw and closes his eyes. Hannibal turns away, trying to force himself through the door.

He goes to the music room and stands on the balcony. It's barely a minute before he hears Will going downstairs. Then the sound of an exterior door opening. For a moment, Hannibal is struck dumb by his own absurd panic beneath the frustration. He won't go. He won't.

The door slams, the noise swallowed up by the resounding stillness of the house. He finds himself with his hand in his pocket, tight around his folding knife. All the myriad discourtesies Will has shown him over the course of his injury are still raw. He steels himself until the snarling maw of fury in him quiets to a dull pulse.

He's sure Will knows better than to leave. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd gone for a walk. They're two solitary creatures, still growing accustomed to one another's company.

It doesn't mean he's any less furious. He debates going after him, but he knows if Will were to run - to follow his instincts - Hannibal would give chase. His blood would be beautiful, but Hannibal wants him whole: he can see him developing his mental photograph of Hannibal, starting to more closely examine the details. He cannot yet bring himself to overexpose it. Closing his eyes, he slowly relaxes his grip on the steel. He'll go to bed. No reason not to. And if Will doesn't come home- he'll find him.


	10. Chapter 10

Will slinks back into Hannibal's house in the wee hours like an opportunistic stray, sleeping fitfully on the sofa until dawn. Dreams of strange, darkling creatures make him jerk, and he wakes with a cold wash of pain from his shoulder. He feels chilled and sluggish.

A long chug of water from the kitchen tap and a full dose on his painkillers - he's in the process of winding them down - only help clear his head a little. He makes coffee and sits on the porch to greet the dawn. He's only listening for Hannibal.

When he appears in the kitchen, he's already dressed, Will notices. No soft hair and robe for him this morning. Will looks back out at the garden and waits for his punishment. He's sure there'll be one.

"I thought we might take a drive today," is all Hannibal says.

Will looks at him. "Where to?"

"Out of the city," Hannibal shrugs. He stoops to take Will's near-empty cup. "Go and get dressed. I don't want us to lose the day."

Will doesn't know what to do other than obey. He showers and dresses as fast as he can with one hand. The dressings are small on his wound now, easy keep out of the water, but he still winces when he has to change it by himself: usually Hannibal helps.

When he goes downstairs, Hannibal is loading a duffle bag into the trunk of his car, expression solemn.

Will's stomach knots. He wants to reach for reassurance, but Hannibal is cool as stone as he opens the passenger door for him, polite as ever. Will can only respond in kind.

"Thank you." He gets in, fighting with his seat belt for a minute. Polite or not, Hannibal doesn't move to help.

Will stays silent for the drive, nerves winding up. He recognizes the direction they're heading, but doesn't realize why until they've turned off onto a side road. Then, acid fear balloons in his chest, grabbing hold of his brain stem and squeezing. He feels himself flush hot and then icy. He can't speak.

The cabin he built squats amongst the trees and grasses like a living thing, black eyed and empty. Beyond, the stagnant water of the bayou, and dank, reedy forest. He'd never have guessed in a million years that Hannibal would seek it out. The reasons why are myriad and whirling. He feels sick. It's a wrench against his instincts to make himself get out of the car when thy pull up, his limbs leaden with fear, like a buildup of fatigue acid.

He can't show Hannibal he's afraid, he knows. It's part of the test.

Just like he knows that, he knows why. He mentally revises Hannibal's body count upward, and he is torn between mute acquiescence and shouting, "Why?"

Hannibal takes in his countenance and then gestures. "Shall we go inside?"

"How?" Will asks, as if neither of them has the skill to pick a lock. He is somehow unsurprised when Hannibal holds up a key. That probably means he's been before. Will barely manages to stifle his hesitation before he follows Hannibal up the steps into the cabin.

Being inside brings waves of emotion he's not quite braced for. Despite everything, he's stunned by the gesture. He knows without even looking at Hannibal that this is born of some great need to own him- to know him intimately, and interlink their lives thoroughly enough that they might never untangle. The realization calms him, just the tiniest amount. He realizes it shouldn't be such a comfort. But it is.

"I've not been here in a decade," Will murmurs.

"I know." His gaze lingers on Will as he walks further inside.

Even as he refamiliarizes himself with the kitchen, Will is hyper aware of Hannibal’s proximity. He reaches out and touches the worn edge of the kitchen counter. Finally, Hannibal speaks.

"I bought it." Will looks up sharply, but Hannibal continues. "I thought with a little renovation we could get away from the city sometimes. You said you never got to live in it."

"I can't picture you living here," Will confesses.

"Doesn't say much for that imagination of yours."

Will eyes him critically. The sharp tone is unlike him.

"I was thinking more weekends," Hannibal continues, softening. "I thought it would be nice for you to have a part of you back, and I won't deny it brings me pleasure to see parts of the earth that you've changed. I wanted you to have a touchstone, especially if we move."

"Are we moving?" Will asks weakly.

"Not if you don't want to, but if I go into psychiatry, I can set up an office anywhere. Quantico will likely not be relocating."

Will wanders into the next room, not completely turning his back to Hannibal. "I'd have to interview. There'll be thousands of candidates."

"You'll get it."

Will looks around again. "You only moved here a couple of years ago."

"That hardly matters."

"And when you say 'if we move'- it's only been a few months. You don't think that's a little soon?"

"Do you think I have any doubts left?" Hannibal shoots back.

Will squares his jaw, then looks down. "Me neither, but if I did-?"

"I'm not looking for a prisoner," Hannibal replies.

Will makes himself look at his shoes and think for a moment. Under everything else - the double-edged threat, the gift, the promise of what this means to Hannibal - he sees the apology, too, buried deep. Hannibal will never dig it out. It wrenches his insides to think that doing the right thing would cost him everything. Will isn't selfless enough to amputate his only source of comfort.

"I thought you were bringing me here to kill me," he whispers.

"I know you did." He doesn't sound sorry. Will finally looks at him. His eyes are fathomlessly dark and strangely comforting.

Gradually, Will lets himself close the space between them, and Hannibal welcomes him. Will remains wary even as Hannibal raises a hand to cup his cheek, though he has no plans to pull away from anything Hannibal gives him.

Hannibal studies his face silently for a moment. He strokes Will's hair back. "You'd let me, wouldn't you?"

Will closes his eyes against the great wave of emotion the words inspire. He nods.

"Why?" Hannibal whispers.

It's easier than Will thought it would be to find the answer. He swallows hard. "Because I want you to forgive me."

"What am I forgiving?" Hannibal murmurs, tone still achingly soft.

Will bows his lip. "That I didn't appreciate what you did for me enough."

"I never asked for your appreciation."

"Acceptance."

"But, Will, I know I have that. I knew it last night, at dinner, when you cleared your plate."

Will screws up his face. "Acceptance for what that makes me, then."

Hannibal pauses. "Am I forgiving the lack of it, or the delay in reaching it?"

"You tell me."

Hannibal looks down at him, face unmoving. "What am I, Will?"

"Mine," Will says, immediately.

"And what are you?"

"Yours."

"Then I forgive you."

Will's exhale is shaky with relief. Then he feels Hannibal reach into his pocket and set an item into his palm. Will looks down at the linoleum knife, folded innocently now but surely lethally sharp. He raises his eyes to Hannibal's, heart thudding again. He'd known before now, but this is irrefutable.

"Would you have fed me to the gators after?"

Hannibal's pupils shrink to pinpricks, crimson flecked in the half light. "No. I would have kept you in the crawl space. Sleeping in a bed of leaves."

"Which parts of me?"

"Whatever I couldn't eat."

Will’s breath jars. Hearing it is different than knowing it. Hannibal's expression tells Will he knows it as well. With a heavy swallow, Will folds open the linoleum knife and hands it back to him. Their eyes snag and hold.

"I want all of you," Will tells him, with as little of a wobble in his voice as he can muster, "even the dark meat."

Hannibal touches his chin, lifts it. He's opaque even now. He sets the edge of the blade delicately against Will's neck, and though he's trying, Will can't stop his tremors from showing. Cold spreads across his chest, dripping down into his belly. He doesn't flinch. He doesn’t say _alligator_.

"I want all of you. Living and breathing." The knife bites in just enough to release a trickle of blood. Will feels the tip drag the nick a bit wider, then Hannibal conjures a handkerchief and wipes the knife, tucking it away, before doing the same to his throat. His touches stay gentle. "You are unique. Not only because you know the truth."

"Because I understand it," Will intuits.

The ghost of a smile. Hannibal tilts his head.

"You had likely already formed a mostly accurate mental image of what my childhood did to me, and for the most part that didn't seem to bother you- only this instance did. Tell me, Will, did you resent me a little, for doing what you failed to do?"

"Damn it, Hannibal."

"It must have felt dissatisfying, knowing you emptied a clip into him and still he lived."

"It wasn't right," Will hisses. He shakes his head. "He wasn't- punishing anyone, he was- exercising his revenge fantasies and in that process he robbed another family of their child. He should have died bleeding."

He watches Hannibal's expression slowly change until it approaches rapture. "Yes," he agrees softly, "it should have been you that did it." He strokes over the cut on Will's neck again.

Will feels suddenly wrung out. The words had felt like someone else's, but he knows they weren't. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "I love you," he sighs.

Hannibal curls an arm around his back, holding his forehead gently against his cheek. "And I you."

They stay like that for a long moment. Will’s mind slips under the surface of stagnant water for a moment, sifting through the silky mud until he unearths his thoughts.

“You have a place outside of the city where you keep your – equipment?”

“I’m very careful. Are you thinking about when we move?”

“Yeah. I mean, we’ve got no leads, I’m not worried but. I was curious.”

“One day,” Hannibal allows, “I might show you.”

“Right.” Will feels weak. He stays close, gripping Hannibal's sleeve weakly. Another long lull before he finds his words. "Did you have a... backup plan for today?"

"I brought lunch."

Will sighs. "Of course you did."

Hannibal shrugs minutely.

"Who was it?" Will can’t stop himself from asking, but he regrets it when Hannibal gives him a flat look of reproach.

"A pig," is all he says.

Will tuts, favoring his shoulder as he moves away. "Sh’we sit on the porch?"

"Yes, that will do."

Hannibal gets lunch from the car while Will gathers himself, easing down onto the lip of the decking. He'd forgotten why he chose this plot of land, but now he remembers. The view over the water is green and lush and calm. Hannibal ought to look out of place, but of course he doesn't. He comes back to Will with the bag from earlier. Will wonders- not without a tinge of bitterness- what Hannibal would have used the Tupperware for if things had gone south.

He ought to be horrified, he knows. Instead, he just considers their mutual madness.

" _Folie à deux_ ," he mutters to himself as Hannibal sits.

Maybe Hannibal doesn't hear- maybe he just doesn't feel like indulging he melodrama. He hands him a Tupperware and a fork. "It'll be time for your next dose soon."

"I don't want it," Will sighs. "It makes me groggy."

"I know, but you're ill-tempered when you're uncomfortable."

Will smirks. "Oh, am I?"

Hannibal smiles back and nudges him. "Eat."

Will does, with no hesitation. It does actually make him feel a little less sick. He relents and takes his medicine when Hannibal hands it to him with a bottle of water. Perrier, of course, because Hannibal is Hannibal even when packing a - murder picnic. He sighs at the thought.

"So I guess I need to call someone about tendering my resignation."

Hannibal hums to show he's listening.

"I probably shouldn't be active in law enforcement under the circumstances," Will murmurs.

"It is your decision," Hannibal replies.

"I know that." He sighs. "I think I need this."

"Need what, Will?"

"A change. A big one."

Hannibal nods. "Change staves off decay." He sighs fondly. "I confess to a desire to witness what you become."

Will looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"You have the most interesting mind I've come across in decades," Hannibal murmurs.

"I'm not sure how flattered I am in light of recent events."

"Yes, you are."

Will gives him a sidelong glare. Hannibal would probably shrug if shrugging were dignified. But he just looks back.

"What's so interesting about it, Doctor?"

"The way you see people. See - me." He dabs his mouth delicately with a napkin. "You make connections with fascinating accuracy based on very little evidence. I often wish I could bear witness to your conversations with the dead."

"As a psychiatrist? Or as my -"

Hannibal waits, visibly intrigued.

"Significant other," Will says, consonants sharp.

"As intimately as possible."

"I'm not surprised."

"Nor should you be, if we're moving in together."

Will sighs again. "I fear neither of us are suited for separation at this point."

"Not quite the enthusiasm I'd hoped for, but I suppose you're right."

"Ask me again when I'm not in pain, traumatized, and sleep-deprived."

Hannibal gives him one of his favoring smiles again. Will sighs at how much he likes it. He's in love with a dangerous man. He eats the rest of his lunch and thinks about how badly things could go for them in the future. Lunch, however, is delicious.

"Thanks," he says quietly when Hannibal takes his crockery and goes to put them back in the car. He wanders back through the rest of the small cabin. It's strange to be back. He wonders how long it took Hannibal to find it.

Then again, he can easily see Hannibal working that kind of small miracle. He wonders how long he's been performing them undetected. All his life, as far as Will can tell. Has anyone ever seen him before Will? He's not sure they'd have survived it. He has no doubt if anyone has ever confronted him, they're long since dissolved in the bellies of beasts by now. He doesn't intend to follow them. At least not today.

Rubbing idly where his sling cuts in, he walks on. The old bedroom has evidence of visitation. Will tilts his head.

"Ought to fix this place up."

He hears Hannibal behind him. "I'd love to see it."

"Well, I'll make it fancy for you. Maybe needs a bigger kitchen."

"I agree."

Will sighs. "All right. Can we head back?"

"Yes, of course. Would you like to stop at the market? We could plan dinner together."

"Sure." No reason to be disagreeable. This is a better way to be involved in the meal.

They pack up and get back in the car, Will watching the wild countryside roll past the windows, mind turning over uneasily. He's mostly uneasy that he doesn't feel more unease. Hannibal suddenly makes so much more sense. Will feels like maybe he makes more sense in the reflection. Like a king of hearts card, he thinks idly, eyes tagging onto trees and houses in the distance. He's bobbing on the waves of a dark and depthless love. Better that than in the depths, waiting to be discovered.

His eyes shift to Hannibal's face. He's elegantly composed while he drives. No sign of the mind within. Will searches for signs of it for a long time until Hannibal catches his eye and grins. After that, it seems unwise to continue prodding.

Hannibal is solicitous at the market, helping him out of the car and asking his opinion on several different types of produce. Will keeps it civil, though eventually it starts to wear thin. Maybe it's just the pain. He's tired, too. Hannibal fixes him with a knowing look when they get home and the groceries are away.

"Can I suggest a siesta? I can't imagine either of us slept well last night."

"Are you joining me?"

"If you'll have me."

"Yes, I will." What else could he say.

Hannibal lifts a hand to cup the back of his neck. "Let's go."

They go. Will sheds his jeans. In bed, Hannibal fluffs Will's pillows like he has every time they get in this bed for the last two weeks, and Will still feels the same fond sigh form in his chest as he settles down. He thinks he won't be able to sleep, but he's wrong. Hannibal wraps his arm gently over his waist and Will quickly feels the apprehension filter away as his eyes grow heavy.

*

He wakes some hours later as the sun filters down. His shoulder aches again but he's wrapped up in Hannibal, too warm and settled to wake him. He just traces over the lines of Hannibal's forearm with his eyes.

He doesn't look harmless anymore, Will realizes. Not an eccentric doctor, even a brilliant one. Will can't gauge the depths of Hannibal's strangeness, but he gets the feeling he'll see more of it as time goes on. Again, he's prodded by the surprised notion that he still has no real desire to turn him in. Instead, he's curious.

He reaches out with his good hand and strokes Hannibal's hair back. He's all red and gold in the fading light, like a sleeping lion. Will had felt like he hadn't known him, the last weeks, but it's clear now finally. The next move is his. He shifts closer, tucking himself against his body. Hannibal's arm tightens.

They don't speak; they know what the other is thinking. Hannibal smiles and tucks his face against his neck. Will feels his lips brush the skin.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hello, Will."

Will lets out a slow breath. "When can I move my arm again?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I'd like the use of both my hands back at some point."

"Understandable. You'll need to be proactive with your physical therapy, you know."

"I'm sure you won't let me get complacent."

"Indeed not." He strokes up Will's side gently, expression thoughtful. "What specifically do you want to do, Will?"

"Well it'd be nice to cut up my own dinner."

"Of course." Hannibal strokes his hair idly.

Will sighs. "And touch you. Properly."

"Do you want that?”

"Yes," he doesn't leave any room for disbelief. "I miss it."

Hannibal smiles at him. "I confess I am glad."

"Might be an issue if you weren't."

Hannibal tugs a lock of hair in punishment for the sarcasm. Will tries not to grin. Hannibal sees it anyway, if the teeth prickling his jaw are any indication.

Will takes the opportunity to kiss him, slow and sure. Hannibal lets himself be redirected with a quiet hum that Will can feel. It's awful, how much he'd throw under the bus for this. Awful and exhilarating.

He settles closer when they part and Hannibal pets his back gently. "Hungry?"

"I could eat," Will murmurs.

Hannibal smiles. "Will you help me cook?"

"Don't know how much use I'll be one handed, but sure."

Hannibal helps him sit up, and kisses his shoulder. "Your company is enough, until you're well enough to participate."

The way he says it is telling. Will elects to take it on face value. He's in uncharted waters here; he has to take this slow.

***

Things don't seem to go slow at all. Will apparently has friends in high places in the FBI, because his recommendations are solid enough to land him the teaching post at Quantico. He goes back in to the precinct as soon as he gets the call, to tender his official resignation.

Hannibal drives him, and waits in the corridor with Beverly, exchanging idle pleasantries. He notes that she seems sorry to lose Will, though she expresses nothing but approval at his decision to Hannibal. There's a tightness

around her eyes though. Hannibal wonders how long she'll stay in Louisiana after Will leaves. He suspects not long. As it's rather flattering to Will, he approves, at least vaguely. He has bigger concerns- like finding a place to live that borders his and Will's separate needs.

He's already found an office - as it had happened, an acquaintance from his medical school days was preparing to retire - and taken care of the necessary licensure. So now it's just moving. He's struggling to pin down a place he and Will can agree on. It was hard enough to get him to agree to let Hannibal buy it. Letting him purchase his cabin back from Hannibal had been the only way.

Hannibal is quite satisfied with that outcome of things - Will is going to need a place of his own sometimes, Hannibal just wishes it wasn't so far away. He feels trepidation at the thought of their separation, but with Will only just free of his sling and still struggling with his right hand, he doesn't think the time he chooses to be alone will be soon. For his part Will seems quietly content, despite everything, to let Hannibal make this transition easier.

His butterfly has hatched, vulnerable wings still unfurling. He doesn't relish what Hannibal is yet - he keeps himself carefully quiet on the subject - but Hannibal knows he will. He shows his love in more mundane ways, still irresistible to Hannibal because of the novelty, and the tiny spasms of pain it seems to cause him.

Today, the way is by nodding tiredly at a listing Hannibal's realtor has sent them, without sneering at any of the current decor. Hannibal isn't exactly fond of it either.

"If you like it, let's see it."

"Very well, I'll book a showing for Friday."

Will nods and cradles his whiskey against his sternum, tipping his head back to Hannibal's shoulder when he's passed the tablet back. Most of their things are already in storage. They leave in two days. They've rented somewhere in the city for convenience, but Will is resistant to the idea of living there permanently.

Hannibal's realtor is going to dislike him intensely, he senses, and suspects the feeling will be mutual. He's amused by the thought. Feeling a rush of fondness, he kisses Will's temple. It garners his attention and he raises his eyebrows expectantly. Hannibal meets his gaze steadily.

"Tell me about this house then, Hannibal.”

"It's in Baltimore, a good neighborhood, quiet. You saw the garden and the garage in the listing. I think it's big enough."

"In Baltimore. A neighborhood," Will says. He sounds a little less indulgent now.

"It's not the city proper," Hannibal defends. "A suburb. It's certainly quieter than your last rental."

Will sighs but says nothing else.

"Will," Hannibal prompts.

"Doctor."

Hannibal can see he isn't in the mood for discussion, so he bends his head to kiss his neck instead. Will sighs again, frowning at his glass. Hannibal keeps kissing him. Eventually, some of the tension unwinds from Will's shoulders.

"Neighborhood," he repeats, sullenly.

"Hedges all around the garden," Hannibal counters, popping two of his shirt buttons and slipping a hand inside.

He can feel Will's heartbeat picking up as he allows it, under a pink scar.

"And where can I fish?" Will mutters.

"State parks, the bay... I'll buy you a license." His flesh is warm and yielding.

Will pulls another face, but he doesn't say anything else, finally distracted by his touch. Hannibal feels his heartbeat pick up. He touches over the red scar he's left over his heart, thumb circling. In his mind, the blade bites in again, spilling rubies. Will would be beautiful dying. Hannibal dearly wishes he'd seen him before surgery the night of his run in with Carter. He will always wish he'd been the one to perform it, as well. He wants to see inside of him so badly it pangs like a hunger pain. He gets Will's bottomless eyes instead, and it's - enough.

"Hannibal," Will says it softly, "don't stop."

Hannibal breathes out, fingers circling one tight nipple. Will arches with a little sound of surprise. It's been weeks and weeks since they've been intimate, though Hannibal has conscientiously continued a routine of small touches. He's more than ready to change that now, and he thinks it will benefit Will greatly – well, they both will, re-establishing the rhythm of their bodies, re-seeding Will's need for him. His own has never abated.

Under the gentle pinch-twist of his fingers now, Will makes a low noise. "Are you trying to placate me?"

"I rather thought I was seducing you. And why bring trying into it?"

Will huffs. "Your seduction occasionally has an agenda."

"It always has an agenda, my love; is pleasure not agenda enough?"

Will gives him another sidelong look, but he seems satisfied enough. He knows the truth of things, somewhere inside. They both play the same games. Will being withholding has been a tactic in itself. Now, he says not to stop.

Hannibal wonders what _his_ next tactic is. Perhaps he'll let Will decide, while he strips them both of their clothes.

When he's got Will laid out beneath him on the couch in his underwear, he looks like he's still debating. Hannibal spends the time touching him. He likes looking at the wound on Will's shoulder, still angry and red but healing well. He lets his fingers trace its circumference.

"How's it looking, Doctor?"

"Better every day, now." It's hard not to be suggestive.

Will glances down between their bodies and finally cracks a smile. " _Is_ it."

"Absolutely."

"And... everything else?"

"Also improving," Hannibal says mildly. He dips his head to nibble at Will's neck.

Will sighs and touches down his bare flank with gentle fingers. Hannibal lets his lips travel across his collarbone to the injured shoulder, then down his arm. The muscles jump under the skin. Will's fingers sweep over his back and up into his hair, cheeks prettily flushed when Hannibal glances up.

"What shall I do next?" he says, voice low.

"Whatever you like, Hannibal. This is your seduction."

He hopes Will knows what he's asking for. Their eyes meet, and Will seems certain, so Hannibal intends to indulge himself. He kisses the centre of Will's chest with a knowing hum. He can kiss every bit of him, now.

Will shivers a little bit, shifting. Hannibal rubs his cheek against Will's ribs, gratified by the way Will jumps at the scrape of stubble. He runs his hands up and down tender flanks and feels him squirm just so. His breath catches. Flattening a palm against his belly to steady him, Hannibal touches the tip of his tongue to the cotton of his briefs, finding a wet spot already there. Another round of squirming at that. Hannibal stills him with a look.

"You said I had free rein."

"Oh, but I don't?"

"Are you planning on seducing me back, love?"

"You bet, baby," Will says lazily but with intent - a testament to how much he's enjoying his whiskey again at the minute.

"Mm. Go on."

Will sits up and kisses him again slowly. His hands coax Hannibal to straddle him properly. Then he starts to thumb down his shorts with careful hands, eyes appraising the rising arc of Hannibal's cock.

Hannibal can hardly help it. Will doesn't seem amused, just pleased. He leans in to kiss his chest and curls a hand around him. His thumb brushes over the slit, where he's leaking over his foreskin. Hannibal gives a low noise of content when Will urges him a bit higher on his knees so he can bend to lick the fluid away with his pink tongue. His hands steady Hannibal's hips. Even so, Hannibal has to grip the back of the sofa for purchase when Will gets to work. And he does work; Hannibal barely has to thrust.

"Will," he says, soft and admiring.

Will just hums. His hands tether Hannibal close as he sucks him slow and explorative, lashes fanned against his cheeks so that Hannibal can't help but touch them with his thumbs. He can't help any of his light, admiring touches. Will sucks him deeper and with intent, his own little vocalizations buzzing through Hannibal's skin. His lips are flushed as red as Hannibal's cock. Both of them seem ready to make up for lost time.

As seduction goes, Will is undeniably pulling ahead. The thought makes Hannibal ease back, shivering when Will follows at first. When Will pulls off, they both groan softly.

"Why am I stopping?" he asks roughly, with an arched brow.

"My turn."

"If you insist."

Hannibal will insist if necessary. Will smiles at him knowingly until Hannibal kisses it away. He rolls them over until he’s on his back with Will over his hips, then he tugs at Will's briefs. Ignoring Will’s curious expression, he tucks the elastic behind his balls, stroking one hand slowly up and down his shaft. It’s delicious watching Will's stomach muscles move. He's clearly trying to hold still. Hannibal keeps stroking him fast and smooth, watching his face, the way he holds back his little hitches in breath and expression. Hannibal isn't sure why he's holding back; it could be as simple as pain.

He can’t have that. With another gentle squeeze, Hannibal lets go and pushes himself up to a sitting position. "May I take you to bed?"

"Yeah, you may."

Hannibal helps him stand, then gets gracefully to his own feet. They go upstairs unsteadily. Neither of them are particularly ready to stop touching. Hannibal finds it entirely too wonderful to have permission again. For pleasure, that is; and perhaps some pain.

In the bedroom, he eases Will down onto the sheets and spreads himself over him, their lips brushing together as they reacquaint themselves with one another. Each touch has one or the both of them gasping. It's difficult to be patient. Hannibal sighs and cups Will's cheek. "Are you seduced, my love?"

Will chuckles. "I'm getting there. What do you plan to do now, Doctor?"

"Continue my examination," Hannibal says.

"Just tell me what to do."

"Spread your legs for me," Hannibal says softly, reaching for lube.

With a faint smile, Will does, shifting to get comfortable. Hannibal slicks his fingers and skims down one of Will's creamy thighs. He wants to ask him things; to catch a glimpse into his mind like dappled sunlight in a dark room, but it feels like too much of a raw thing to do so when Will is finally happy to let him see him vulnerable in other ways now. There will be other chances. Today he just wants to make him happy. It's as foreign a feeling as anything ever was, but there's something Hannibal loves about its simplicity: Will inspires such pure love in him. He wants to experience it fully.

"Hannibal," Will murmurs, like he's reminding him he's there, "come on."

Hannibal stifles a smile. “Yes, of course, darling boy.”

He presses down with his fingers, finding the pucker of tender skin. Will arches up and grits his teeth, features made pretty by the soft light from the sinking sun outside. Hannibal noses along the tight line of his jaw.

"Relax," he tells him quietly as he pushes in. His gasp rings musically in Hannibal's ears. He doesn't just want this to be about preparing Will, he wants to make him react; to feel. To explore him from the inside as best he can. He strokes deep immediately and Will huffs his approval, turning his cheek against the pillow to pant. Hannibal repeats the gesture, kissing behind his ear.

"God," Will groans. Hannibal indulges himself in that he might have missed him. If so, it was buried inside a nesting doll's worth of separate unhappinesses, these past weeks. Perhaps this will finally dismantle the last of the barriers between them. Will is so beautiful. Hannibal still resents that his scars aren't the only ones he carries.

"Will," he noses against his throat as he starts to tease in with a second finger, going slow. Will's scent has improved now that he's living with Hannibal, but his own natural components still curl beneath it, subtle and enticing. He hears him make a soft sound of acknowledgement at his name and breathes in deep. "Will you still want my teeth in you now that you know?"

He hears and feels Will's breath catch. He turns to look Hannibal in the face, eyes heavy-lidded. "More," he whispers.

Hannibal feels that awful swell of need for him again, the same one he felt when Will bared his throat to him in the cabin and held his gaze. He's holding it now, and Hannibal knows he's seeing everything. Then he leans up and kisses Hannibal, a hint of teeth at the edges.

Hannibal keeps stroking into him. Eventually, Will makes a keening noise against his mouth. "Hannibal," he breathes, body arching up.

Hannibal circles his fingers gently to watch his face. It's so expressive.

"Hannibal- please- I am seduced. I'm yours. Please, please."

"Not yet." He's not done watching him. He's pink in the cheeks now, eyes sparkling with unsaid words. Hannibal wants to hear them. He keeps stroking, precise, practiced motions now.

Will's mouth falls open and his hands tighten on Hannibal's shoulders. He just whines wordlessly, hips jerking. Hannibal applies more lube and presses in with his third finger. He's determined to make him fall apart.

"Hannibal, fuck- please," Will breathes.

"I want to be inside you," Hannibal tells him.

"So get inside me."

"I am."

"Get further inside me," Will hisses.

"I will."

"When, exactly?"

Hannibal searches his face. He rubs again gently with the pads of his fingers and Will gasps. "Now," Hannibal smirks. He pulls his fingers out gently, pausing when Will grabs his arm gently.

"Can we turn over?"

"Show me how you'd like to be."

"I want to be on top of you."

Hannibal bites his lip. "Your shoulder-"

"Is aching from me being on my back." Will shrugs.

"Very well, I'll hold on to you," Hannibal murmurs.

Will pushes up on his good arm to kiss him. He doesn't stop until neither of them can breathe. Finally, Hannibal's patience wanes and he turns them over slowly until Will can settle in his lap, Hannibal’s back to the headboard.

Will leans over for the lube again, and when they're ready, he grasps the headboard for purchase as Hannibal takes his hips. His teeth bare as he sinks down, rim stretching slowly to let Hannibal inside. It's a hot, velvet slide then, and he squeezes like he can't help it for a moment, turning his mouth into his bicep to muffle his sounds.

"Will," Hannibal gasps, feeling his muscles working slowly around his length.

Will keeps his eyes shut as he gives his first tentative rock, lips parting at the feeling. "Fuck..."

"All right, my love?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Far enough now?"

Will nods; keeps rocking, slow and slick, tight circles at first. Hannibal grips his hips. He's not prepared for Will's rough, low groan when he pulls him faster. It shivers across his skin.

"Hannibal." Will grips at his chest weakly with his other hand as they move together with more purpose. "Oh god-"

He feels like he won't last. Hannibal curls a hand around the base of his cock and balls, alternating between slow strokes and gentle squeezes when he feels Will tightening. He wants to keep going for a few moments longer.

"Hannibal," Will chokes, riding him faster, hair hanging in his eyes. His noises turn into no language Hannibal knows. He's urgent, breathless, more uninhibited than Hannibal has seen him in a long time. It's almost more intoxicating than the trembling grip of his flesh. Taken together, it's _entirely_ intoxicating.

Hannibal falls headlong into the kiss Will gives him as their actions hit the brink, tension drawing like thread. Will's almost punishingly tight around him. Biting into his good shoulder, Hannibal groans and keeps surging until the sharp bucks of Will's hips all but drag Hannibal's orgasm out of him, so fierce he bites down harder.

Will cries out. He doesn't stop moving until Hannibal squeezes his hips, gathering himself. Will all but vibrates with need. He pulls out, leaving Will clutching the headboard, and slides roughly down the bed to get his mouth on Will's cock.

"Fuuuck," Will snarls, "put your fingers back in me- please."

Hannibal moans in surprise and sinks two fingers in to the hilt. The gentle thrusts of his fingers have Will arching forward into his mouth with a stuttered, warning groan of his name. Hannibal takes him deep into his throat, fingers twisting. When Will comes with a clenching cry, Hannibal doesn't swallow right away, just working his fingers until he feels the last pulse of Will's release. He pulls back far enough to lick him clean, the taste of Will’s blood and semen mingling on his tongue before he finally swallows.

Will groans into his arms when he pulls his fingers free. "Jesus, Hannibal..."

"Will," Hannibal breathes. He slides out from under Will gently, watching him sink down on his knees like he's decompressing, still holding onto the headboard. As his breaths steady, Hannibal kneels behind him, hands soothing circles over his back.

Will wipes his face furiously on his knuckles after a minute. "I love you. It scares me how much."

"Will," he tucks his face against his nape.

"Sorry. I'm just tired."

"Don't - ever be sorry." He clasps his hands against his stomach and Will sniffs, leaning back into his body. "I love you so completely," Hannibal murmurs into his ear.

"I need this," Will says softly, "please don't make me give it up."

"You must know," Hannibal breathes. "Separating us would never succeed."

"You don't know that. If anyone caught you, anyone but me-" He pauses at the look on Hannibal's face. " _Promise me_ ," he pleads.

Hannibal considers in silence, and then he nods. He had, of course, expected that this would be coming. "I won't do anything to infringe on our safety. You have my word."

He can feel the last bit of tension leaving Will's body. "Thank you," he says, reaching back to touch Hannibal's hair.

_Don't thank me_ , Hannibal thinks. He just squeezes him though, and then strokes his hair. "Bath?"

"Now you're just taking advantage."

"Very sly of me to want to wash you."

"Don't think I don't know it's a control thing."

"If I were trying to hide it, it would be a control thing."

Will laughs. "That's not how that works, Hannibal."

Hannibal noses against his ear. "Is that what you think? That I mean to reduce you to an empty man, doing as you're told for my amusement? Docile and defeated?"

Will only laughs harder, which is how Hannibal knows he's back to himself. "Try, and tell me how that works out

for you."

"I want you as you are," Hannibal tells him, voice calm. "I want you with the gravel in you that you were born with. I am enchanted by every spine you armor yourself with. I promise you that." He kisses the tender skin at the point of his jaw. "Prick me all you like, and I will cherish the pain."

Will quiets now. His hand covers Hannibal's on his stomach. "A bath. Okay."

"I'll join you, if that's acceptable."

"That's fine, just don't make me smell like flowers, right?"

_Green things, and dark nights, and warm rain_ , Hannibal thinks to himself, humming. "Of course. Come." He leads Will into the bathroom and turns on the water. Will follows, eyes alight with a sorely-missed gleam of satisfaction.

***

Moving day rolls around faster than Will could ever have anticipated. What's left of their belongings is being loaded into a van to follow them to Baltimore, and without a chair to sit on, Will perches on the porch step with his thermos of coffee and blows steam off the surface. They're due at the airport later in the afternoon, and Will is staying out of Hannibal's way as he directs the movers. It's all a little much for him. He can feel twitches of anxiety seizing each of his muscles in turn.

He's staring at the toes of his boots when he hears his name. It takes him a while to convince himself it's outside his head. He looks up and sees Beverly at the open gate.

"Bev," he says, surprised but pleased.

"Knock knock." She grins, waving a wrapped box in one hand. "I was worried I'd miss you."

"Aw, man. You didn't have to -"

"I know that. Shush." She drops down beside him and steals his coffee.

He doesn't scold her, since it's the last opportunity she has for now. She trades him the box.

"Going away present. Open it."

"Yes, ma'am." He unties the ribbon and pulls the paper free. When he opens the box, he stalls a bit. "A magnifying glass?"

"It's for fly tying. I had to call my parents and ask my dad about it, so it's also your fault that I had to listen to an hour of description of my cousin's wedding."

Will bites his lip, unexpectedly touched. "Thanks, Beverly. It's great."

"You're welcome. You better show me how to use it one day."

He smiles. "If you insist."

"Of course."

"Does that mean you'll visit?"

"You know I will."

They smile at one another silently for a moment, both looking a little sad. "I'm sorry things... derailed a little," Will mutters. "I've really liked working with you."

"Same," she says. "But I think this is a good chance for you."

Will looks out at the garden and suppresses his dubious sigh. He can't think of a more unhinged idea than going to teach at the FBI when his significant other is... whatever he is. "I hope I made the right choice," he murmurs.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"It's a different world up there."

"And you're a different person. You're made for more than fishing bits of human beings out of rivers, Will."

Will wants to laugh. "Made for telling other people how to fish bits of humans out of rivers."

"And more. I'm going to watch the forensics journals for your name," she tells him.

"I'll sign you a copy of the ones that ends up in textbooks," Will says, voice full of acid - not for Bev though.

She snorts and elbows him. "What's it like, being arrogant _and_ hating yourself?"

"It's a good time, I really recommend it."

Bev laughs and leans against him. After a moment, she leans her head on his shoulder. "I'll miss you, champ. I'm happy for you though. Hannibal seems good for you."

"He's incredibly good to me." It's not the same thing at all, but either she doesn't notice or thinks he doesn't.

She sighs and nods. "You deserve a little goodness."

He looks down at the box on his lap. "This will help."

"Glad to hear it." She hands the thermos back to him, looking reluctant to do so. "I should go."

"Me too," Will says. "I'll call you when things settle down."

"Good luck," she replies. "Be safe."

"You too. Don't do anything I would do."

Beverly smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek, then she's gone back down the front path. Will watches her go and feels the finality of it. He's alone with Hannibal now, for good. The problem with that is, he _craves_ it.

As he drinks the last of his coffee, the moving men take the last couple of items that weren't in storage to the truck, Hannibal bringing up the rear. He closes the door beside him. "Ready?"

Will nods, standing and tucking the box under his arm. Hannibal glances at it but doesn’t ask where it’s from: Will knows he can smell Bev's perfume, at the very least.

"Should we put that in a suitcase?" Hannibal asks politely.

"I'll put it in my carry on."

Hannibal takes the thermos while he tucks it carefully into the top of the duffel. They carry the bags down to the taxi - the Bentley has already been shipped to Maryland, and Will is going to come back for his truck when they've got their house sorted- and Will gets in.

Hannibal reaches across the back seat to touch his hand once they're seated and moving. Will looks at him. He smiles faintly. "Hey."

"I hope Miss Katz hasn't made you too sad, Will."

"She didn't. She just came to wish us well."

"Very kind of her."

"Yes, it was."

"How _do_ you feel, Will?" Hannibal asks softly.

"I hate moving," Will shrugs, "I feel tired already."

Hannibal reaches over to cup his cheek and lifts so their eyes meet. Will tries a smile again. It's not so hard with Hannibal's warm hand on him.

"I'll take care of you," Hannibal murmurs.

"And I you," Will promises, voice solemn.

Hannibal's eyes hold a honeyed kiss. Will still sees it even through the hassle of security and boarding, even once they're settled in their seats at the front of the plane.

First class. Will cringes a bit and settles into his seat, tuning things out until they're in the air. It's when his ears have stopped popping that he turns back to Hannibal. Hannibal is immediately receptive. Will leans back in his seat, trying to relax. He touches Hannibal's arm on the rest between them.

"I never asked," he murmurs. "About you, Hannibal. Do you regret what you're giving up, now that we've left?"

"Is it giving it up if I'm gaining something far greater?"

"Are you?" Will replies softly.

"I believe so." His answer comes with no hesitation.

Will sighs. "And what if you regret it? And hate me for it?" He meets Hannibal's eyes.

"I could never hate you."

"No?" Will murmurs.

"Never."

Will looks up at him, heart in his throat. Hannibal takes his hand, lifting it to his lips. "I love you," he says softly.

"I love you too." It's the truth. The deepest, darkest truth he knows.

Hannibal leans to kiss him and he gratefully receives it. He barely notices when the flight attendant stops to offer them champagne. Hannibal accepts for both of them. He hands Will the glass, a small smile touching his lips.

"To new beginnings," he says softly, touching their glasses. Will smiles and takes a sip, then looks out of the window. Below them, the shrinking patchwork rivers and lakes of New Orleans. And above, the sky indifferent.


End file.
